HARVARD  PLAYS 

The  4^  Workshop 

^^^^^^^^^^^^•r  * 


UC-NRLF 


Second  Series 


. 


HARVARD  PLAYS 

SECOND   SERIES 


EDITED    BY 

GEORGE  P.  BAKER 

PROFESSOR   OF    DRAMATIC   LITERATURE,    HARVARD    UNIVERSITY 


PLAYS  OF  THE 

47  WORKSHOP 


SECOND   SERIES 


TORCHES 

By  KENNETH  RAISBECK 

COOKS  AND   CARDINALS 

By  NORMAN  C.  LJNDAU 

A  FLITCH  OF  BACON 

By  ELEANOR  HOLMES  HINKLEY 

THE  PLAYROOM 

By  DORIS  F.  HALMAN 


NEW  YORK 
BRENTANO'S 

1920 


Univ.  Library,  UC  Santa  Cnnt  1989 


Copyright,    1920 
BY  BRENTANO'S 


THE-PLIMPTON'PRESS 
NORWOOD- MA  SS'U'S'A 


4/7 


Attention  is  called  to  the  penalties  provided  by  law  for  any 

infringements  of  the  dramatist's  rights,  as  follows: 

"Sec.  4966:  —  Any  person  publicly  performing  or  representing 
any  dramatic  or  musical  composition  for  which  copyright  has 
been  obtained,  without  the  consent  of  the  proprietor  of  said 
dramatic  or  musical  composition,  or  his  heirs  and  assigns,  shall 
be  liable  for  damages  therefor,  such  damages  in  all  cases  to  be 
assessed  at  such  sum,  not  less  than  one  hundred  dollars  for  the 
first  and  fifty  dollars  for  every  subsequent  performance,  as  to 
the  court  shall  appear  to  be  just.  If  the  unlawful  performance 
and  representation  be  wilful  and  for  profit,  such  person  or  persons 
shall  be  guilty  of  a  misdemeanor,  and  upon  conviction  be  im- 
prisoned for  a  period  not  exceeding  one  year."  —  U.  S.  Revised 
Statutes,  Title  60,  Chap.  3. 


PREFACE 

THE  welcome  accorded  the  first  volume  of  The 
47  Workshop  Plays  and  its  companion,  The  Har- 
vard Dramatic  Club  Plays,  was  so  hearty  that 
a  second  edition  of  each  was  printed  in  January 
of  this  year.  The  increasing  demand  for  more 
one-act  plays  from  the  same  sources  caused  the 
publishing  last  June  of  The  Second  Series  of 
Dramatic  Club  Plays,  which  has  been  as  favorably 
received  as  the  earlier  volumes.  The  present  col- 
lection is  printed  further  to  satisfy  this  demand. 

These  four  plays  —  a  fantasy,  a  costume 
comedy,  a  farce  comedy,  and  a  romantic  tragedy 
—  are  in  every  sense  genuine  products  of  The 
Workshop.  Written  by  members  of  the  Work- 
shop group  —  one  play,  Torches,  from  English 
47  in  this  current  College  year ;  first  produced 
by  the  Workshop ;  revised  in  the  light  of  com- 
ment by  its  audience ;  these  plays  were  ultimately 
selected  from  about  a  dozen  as  the  four  most 
highly  approved  by  the  audiences.  Unlike  their 
predecessors,  they  were  not  chosen  from  the  many 
one-act  pieces  given  by  The  47  Workshop  in  some 
four  or  five  years,  but  have  all  seen  a  first 
performance  within  the  past  twelve  months.  That 
there  has  already  been  considerable  demand  for 


PREFACE 

them  in  manuscript  augurs  well  for  their  recep- 
tion by  the  general  public. 

The  growing  number  of  presentations  of  such 
plays  in  settlement  houses,  schools,  colleges,  and 
experimental  theatres  is  very  encouraging,  but  a 
word  must  be  said  in  protection  of  the  authors. 
The  chief  reason  why  there  has  been  in  this 
country  a  larger  number  of  really  good  one-act 
plays  in  the  last  few  years  is  this :  they  could  be 
written  with  some  justifiable  anticipation  that 
they  would  be  played  repeatedly  and  bring  in  a 
small  royalty  each  time.  Few  people,  least  of  all 
young  dramatists,  can  afford  to  write  even  one- 
act  plays  for  free  performance  by  anyone  who 
cares  to  use  them.  There  is,  however,  a  curious 
feeling  in  many  minds  that  because  a  one-act  play 
is  short  it  cannot  have  cost  much  labor,  and  that 
its  author  should  be  glad  to  have  it  given  as  often 
as  may  be  desired  without  recompense.  Though 
The  47  Workshop  is  always  ready  to  consider 
special  reasons  why  the  usual  small  royalties  re- 
quired for  presentation  of  the  plays  printed  for 
it  and  The  Harvard  Dramatic  Club  should  be 
remitted,  it  has  found  it  necessary  in  almost  every 
instance  to  insist  on  the  regular  fees.  Only  in 
that  way  can  it  insure  a  succession  of  other  short 
plays  likely  to  be  as  satisfactory  to  its  public  as 
the  plays  already  published.  This  statement  may, 
perhaps,  save  misunderstanding  and  disappoint- 
ment in  the  future. 

The  Harvard  Dramatic  Club,  resuming  in  the 
autumn  of  1919  its  activities  interrupted  by  the 


PREFACE 

War,  changed  its  policy,  —  at  least  for  the 
present.  It  now  leaves  to  The  47  Workshop  the 
first  production  of  all  plays,  long  or  short,  by 
Harvard  and  Radcliffe  playwrights.  Instead,  it 
will  busy  itself  with  foreign  drama  not  likely  to  be 
seen  on  the  professional  stage  by  its  audience. 
With  Erasmus  Montanus  of  Holberg  and  Fame 
and  the  Poet  of  Lord  Dunsahy  it  started  success- 
fully, last  December,  on  its  new  policy.  The  pub- 
lication of  this  volume  marks,  then,  the  merging 
of  the  two  series,  of  The  47  Workshop  and  the 
Harvard  Dramatic  Club  plays.  The  Workshop 
will  continue  to  print  its  plays  from  time  to  time, 
as  the  demand  for  them  persists  and  the  standard 
set  by  the  volumes  already  published  can  be  main- 
tained. 

GEO.  P.   BAKER. 
CAMBRIDGE,    MASSACHUSETTS 
March,   1920 


TORCHES 
A  PLAY  IN  ONE  ACT 

BY 

KENNETH  RAISBECK 


CHARACTERS 

GlSMONDA 

ALESSANDRO 
PIETRO 

MADONNA    GIULIA 
Two  NEGRO  BOYS 


Originally  produced  February  5,  1920,  by  The  47  Work- 
shop. Copyright,  1920,  by  Kenneth  Raisbeck.  Permission 
for  amateur  or  professional  performances  of  any  kind  must 
first  be  obtained  from  The  47  Workshop,  Harvard  College, 
Cambridge,  Mass.  Moving  Picture  rights  reserved. 


TORCHES 

SCENE  i1  An  upper  terrace  walled  on  two  sides 
by  a  low  parapet,  on  the  third  —  the  right  —  by 
a  side  elevation  of  the  castle  which  rises  blank  save 
for  one  door;  this  door  stands  open  and  a  rec- 
tangle of  gold  light  from  within  stretches  before 
it.  Over  the  parapet  are  seen  the  tops  of  cypress 
trees  and  Lombardy  poplars;  beyond  loom  cone- 
shaped  hills;  the  deep  night  sky  is  pricked  with 
innumerable  stars.  Three  pillars  of  different 
heights  rise  from  the  parapet;  each  is  hung  with 
garlands  of  trailing  flowers  and  crowned  with  a 
marble  figure.  At  the  back  the  parapet  is  cut 
into  by  two  broad  low  steps  which  admit  to  a 
shallow  curving  balcony;  this  jutting  balcony  is 
a  kind  of  look-out.  The  tessellated  pavement  of 
the  terrace  is  laid  with  thick  Turkey  rugs.  To  the 
right  stands  a  stone  bench.  To  the  left,  under  a 
rich  canopy  with  curtains  at  back  and  side,  a 
table  is  set;  lamps  and  torches  depending  from 
the  standards  of  this  canopy  spill  a  brilliant  flood 
of  light  over  this  table.  The  rest  of  the  terrace 
lies  in  luminous  blue  dusk.2 

1  For  the   Prelude,  specially  written   for  this   play   by 
Randall  Thompson  Serp,  see  pp.  4-7.     On  the  last  notes 
the  light  laughter  of  Gismonda  is  heard  continuing  as  the 
curtain  rises. 

2  For  a  small  stage  the  following  set  has  proved  more 

[  3  ] 


PRELUDE  —  TORCHES 

RANDALL  THOMPSON 


•— £ — -ifl:g_p_4-_Zji=  -ipi~g 

M=*^-M=Efe 

••-    4V  * 


[   4   ] 


PRELUDE  —  TORCHES 


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P  ~  -//  L— L 


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1 


PRELUDE  —  TORCHES 


slentando 


:m 

+-*-+- 


I3t* 


J-J  J    I 

*•(-  <-«-  <•••       </5*  • 


m/  dolce 


I 


ri^arrf 


PRELUDE  —  TORCH  ES 


poco  piu  mosso 


poco  piu  mosso 

I 


to  measure  16 
of     "Song," 
the  voice  partr 
to    be   played  [ 
by    the    viola  * 
and     the    fol- 
lowing   to    be 
j    substituted  for 
the  last  meas- 
ure     of      the 
song : 


8va'"": 


=B 


[  7  ] 


TORCHES 

At  rise  of  curtain  there  are  discovered  two  men 
and  a  woman  sitting  at  the  table;  they  are  nearing 
the  end  of  dinner.  The  elder  man  is  about  forty- 
eight;  his  face  is  dark,  handsome ,  sensitive,  force- 
ful; his  eyes  are  resolute  and  keen;  he  is 
clean-shaven;  he  wears  a  small  turban  from  under 
which  his  thin  black  hair  curls  on  his  neck;  he  is 
dressed  with  sombre  magnificence  in  the  costume 
of  the  Italian  Renaissance,  —  more  particularly, 
the  last  decade  of  the  fifteenth  century.  This  is 
the  Lord  Alessandro.  The  other  man,  Pietro,  is 
about  twenty-three;  his  face  is  strong,  heavy  with 
a  kind  of  brooding  passion,  —  the  lips  full  and 
slightly  pouting,  high  cheekbones,  and  sombre 
deepset  eyes;  a  cruel,  violent,  beautiful  face.  He 
is  clean-shaven;  his  thick,  black,  outstanding  hair 
flows  to  his  shoulders;  he  is  richly  and  elegantly 
dressed.  The  woman,  Gismonda,  is  an  incom- 
parably lovely  creature  of  eighteen,  with  a  full 
but  small  red  mouth,  a  brilliant  complexion,  black 
eyes,  and  delicately  arching  eyebrows;  her  yellow 

practical:  An  upper  loggia  of  stone.  In  the  left  wall  is 
a  niche  containing  a  statue.  The  right  wall  is  cut  into  by 
a  door,  which  stands  open.  At  center  back  a  great  arch 
opens  on  a  balcony  raised  two  low  steps;  this  balcony  has 
a  balustrade  and  is  open  to  the  sky;  at  rise  it  is  screened 
by  a  rich  curtain  hung  within  the  arch.  On  either  side  of 
this  great  center  arch  is  a  smaller  arch  which,  because  of 
the  recessed  low  parapet,  gives  access  to  a  kind  of  niche; 
in  each  of  these  two  niches  a  negro  boy  is  stationed. 
Against  the  right  wall  stands  a  stone  bench.  To  the  left  of 
the  stage  is  set  a  table,  flooded  with  brilliant  light  from,  a 
hanging  lamp  ab6ve.  Against  right  and  left  walls,  two  on 
each,  are  bracketed  four  torches;  they  glow  dully,  and 
dimly  illumine  the  rest  of  the  loggia. 

[  8  ]' 


TORCHES 

hair,  dressed  with  pearls  and  a  heron's  feather, 
curls  in  fine  ringlets  about  her  face.  She  is  su- 
perbly gowned. 

Two  negro  boys  wait,  the  first  with  a  gold 
pitcher. 

GISMONDA  [to  Alessandro]  Shall  you  reach 
Brescia  by  midnight,  my  lord? 

ALESSANDRO.  By  midnight,  certainly.  I  have 
only  to  change  my  dress.  My  men  are  in  readi- 
ness, and  when  the  moon  rises,  we  shall  set  out. 

GISMONDA.     Wine,  Signor  Pietro? 

[He  is  sunk  in  his  thoughts,  and  does  not  hear 
her.  She  taps  his  arm  with  her  fan.] 

Signor  Pietro ! 

PIETRO  [starting'}     Lady! 

GISMONDA  [with  a  light  malicious  laugh] 
Why,  how  you  start ! 

PIETRO.     Your  pardon. 

GISMONDA.     Will  you  have  wine? 

PIETRO.  Wine,  thanks,  lady.  [The  first  negro 
boy  serves,  him.] 

GISMONDA  [turning  again  to  Alessandro] 
Shall  not  you  and  Signor  Pietro  travel  a  little 
way  together? 

ALESSANDRO.  He  goes  northwards  deeper  into 
the  mountains,  and  I  southwest  to  the  plains.  We 
part  here. 

GISMONDA  [mockingly]  Alas !  and  alas !  and 
alas !  Come,  Signor,  must  we  go  on  our  knees  to 
keep  you  from  this  foolish  journey? 

[  9  ] 


TORCHES 

PIETRO  [with  fiiifditi/l      I  go  my  .journey. 

ALESSANDRO.      Pietro   understands. 

GISMONDA  [with  bitter  playfulness  \  He  does 
not  like  our  company?  niy  lord.  Well,  why  should 
we  keep  him  moping  here?  He  can  only  sit 
tongue-tied,  with  his  face  drawn  down  —  [Strug- 
gling with  laughter}  drawn  down  like  death.  Let 
him  go,  I  say —  [Rising;  with  sudden  rage}  Let 
him  go,  and  no  more  words  about  it !  [She  sweeps 
toward  the  back.} 

ALESSANDRO  [in  angry  reproach}     Gismonda! 

GISMONDA  [after  a  pause}  I  am  not  myself 
tonight.  The  air  is  oppressive.  Oh,  draw  back 
this  curtain ! 

[The  second  negro  boy  draws  back  the  hang- 
ings along  one  side  of  the  canopy.} 

Ah!  .  .  .  It  is  better  now.  Still  my  head 
burns.  Let  us  have  the  iced  confections.  They 
may  cool  me. 

[She  has  come  back  to  the  table,  and  now 
strikes  it  twice  sharply  with  her  fan.  The  second 
negro  boy  goes  out,  and  returns,  after  a  moment, 
with  a  tray  of  sweets.} 

ALESSANDRO.  You  will  break  your  fan,  Gis- 
monda. 

GISMONDA  [ironically}  Then  would  I  be  in- 
consolable, my  lord  husband,  since  it  is  your  gift. 

ALESSANDRO.  We.re  it  only  my  gift,  Gismonda, 
you  should  break  it  at  your  will.  But  I  had  it 
wrought  for  you  by  the  Jew  Ercole  Fideli,  and 

[  10  ] 


TORCHES 

there  is  no  silversmith  like  him.  Have  you  seen 
the  fan,  Pietro? 

PIETRO  [indifferently]     No.  my  lord. 

ALESSANDRO.  Spread  it  wide,  Gismonda.  — 
Thin  beaten  silver  plates,  —  you  see?  —  and  here 
a  naked  Love  —  just  a  young  girl — - 

GISMONDA.     I  think  lier  too  thin. 

ALESSANDRO.  The  wonder  and  tenderness  in 
that  face  — 

GISMONDA.  I  like  my  Venus  in  the  antique 
fashion.  They  were  digging  up  half  Rome  when 
I  came  away,  arid  discovering  such  quantities  of 
deep-breasted,  round-limbed  treasures ! 

ALESSANDRO.     I  call  that  Love  a  marvel. 

[Pietro  laughs  a  fierce,  short,  scornful  laugh. 
They  look  at  him  in  surprise.] 

GISMONDA.     Well,    Signor? 

PIETRO  [with  a  kind  of  rage]  Love!  That 
child! 

ALESSANDRO  [smiling]  Would  you  dispute 
the  artist? 

PIETRO.  Oh,  your  artists,  your  lisping  poets 
with  their  silver  Aphrodites ! 

GISMONDA  [her  chin  on  her  hands]  Then  what 
is  love,  Signor? 

PIETRO  [leaning  across  to  Jier]  A  great  fist 
squeezed  about  a  man  till  his  bones  go  crack !  Or 
like  that  ruby  on  my  lord's  hand,  that  balass  ruby 
which  he  cherishes  so  dearly :  Put  your  lips  to  it, 
and  vou  are  poisoned ! 


TORCHES 

ALESSANDRO  [with  low  emphasis]  Take  care, 
Pietro ! 

[Pietro  turns  to  him  sharply.  To  cover  his 
warning :] 

This  wine  is  heady. 

GISMONDA  [in  garrulous  relief]  Aye,  it  is  the 
strong  wine  of  Malvasia,  red  as  the  ruby  you 
liken  to  Love,  Signor,  the  ruby  my  lord  will  give 
me  before  long. 

ALESSANDRO,  It  is  well  you  wear  no  jewels, 
Pietro.  She  is  for  wheedling  the  very  rings  from 
my  fingers. 

GISMONDA.  Not  your  other  rings,  my  lord. 
Only  the  ruby.  Mind  you,  J  have  lived  at  the 
court  of  Rome,  but  this  ruby  is  larger  and  more 
perfect  than  any  I  saw  there.  Not  even  the  peer- 
less Madonna  Lucretia  Borgia  ;  .  .to  think 
that  only  ten  months  since  I  was  her  maid  of 
honor,  unmarried,  and  in  such  gaiety  .  .  .  not 
even  the  magnificent  Madonna  Lucretia  has  such 
a  ruby.  Please  give  it  me? 

[Alessandro  smilingly  shakes  his  head.  She 
strikes  the  table  a  sharp  blow  with  her  fan.] 

Wait !     Somehow  it  shall  be  mine ! 
PIETRO,     Lady,    do    you    gain    everything    on 
which  you  set  your  desire? 

GISMONDA    [promptly]      Everything! 
[A  pause;  with  deep  conviction] 
Everything ! ! 

[A  pause;  with  a  curious  little  smile] 
You  do  not,  Signor? 

[  12  ] 


TORCHES 

PIETRO.     Men  do  not  —  honorably. 

GISMONDA.  Honorably  .  .  .  h'm !  Says  your 
picayune  down-at-the-heels  nobility:  "I  have  lost 
everything  but  my  honor !  "  Honor !  A  word  for 
broken  men!  Cold  comfort  for  those  who  lack 
cunning  to  outwit  or  strength  to  beat  down  their 
enemy ! 

ALESSANDRO   [harshly]   *  There  speaks  Rome ! 

GISMONDA  [insolently]  There  speaks  the 
world,  my  lord,  since  the  world  is  Rome.  [Rais- 
ing her  arms  in  sudden  passionate  longing] 
Would  God  I  were  there ! 

[She  sees  the  two  men  staring  at  her,  laughs 
nervously,  and  says :] 

Do  you  like  this  confection? 

ALESSANDRO.     It  is  delicious. 

GISMONDA.  For  three  miserable  days  I  have 
been  laboring  with  your  cook  —  stupid  lout !  — 
that  this  farewell  supper  might  reward  you  and 
Signor  Pietro  for  giving  me  [with  an  ironically 
sentimental  infection]  your  last  hours  to- 
gether ! 

ALESSANDRO.  This  is  no  death  feast.  Pietro 
will  return  from  Germany  as  surely  as  I  from  the 
races  at  Brescia. 

GISMONDA.  If  he  offer  to  stray  but  five  paces 
toward  Italy,  his  wife  will  clap  him  in  irons. 

PIETRO  [astonished]  My  wife?  [She  breaks 
into  a  peal  of  laughter,  and  nods.  Angrily]  I 
go  to  Germany  to  make  my  fortune,  not  to  get  me 
a  wife ! 

[  13  ] 


TORCHES 

GISMONDA.  But  you  will  marry  there,  Signer. 
[He  makes  an  impatient  gesture  of  negation. 
Mysteriously]  The  German  women  are  such 
witches  !  They  cast  a  spell  by  their  ugliness  ! 

ALESSANDRO.  The  Lord  Duke  of  Ferrara  got 
him  a  wife  out  of  Germany,  and  he  was  well  served. 

GISMONDA.  How's  that,  my  lord?  She  bore, 
him  three  hunchbacks!  Do  you  call  that  being 
well  served? —  Oh,  I  tell  you  the  Germans  are 
barbarians  and  their  women  are  scullions  !  Devils  ! 
They  have  no  style!  Signer  Pietro  will  recover 
his  good  humor  when  he  sees  them.  [With  a 
glance  at  him]  That  is,  if  he  go  out  of  Italy 
with  enough  wit  to  see  how  ridiculous  they  are ! 

ALESSANDRO  [with  a  forced  smile]  She  is 
jealous  of  them,  Pietro. 

GISMONDA  [turning  on  him]  As  jealous  as  if 
I  were  sending  you  among  the  hot  Spanish 
beauties,  who  are  all  dwarfs  and  the  color  of  mud ! 

ALESSANDRO  [smiling,  but.  with  purpose]  She 
would  keep  you  here  to  tag  after  when  she  rides 
out  on  her  jennet. 

PIETRO  [sharply]     My  lord! 

ALESSANDRO.  Who  now  will  play  prop  to  her 
book  when  she  reads  from  the  love  tales  of  God- 
froi  de  Bouillon? 

PIETRO  [in  anger;  half  rising]  You  are 
pleased  to  make  a  fool  of  me,  my  lord. 

ALESSANDRO.     Why,  how  that  jest  touches  you  ! 

PIETRO   [doubtfully;  relaxing]     Jest? 

GISMONDA  [acidly]  Would  it  be  else?  Are 
you  fit  for  anything  but  to  carry  a  sword,  shoot 


TORCHES 

an  arrow,  let  fly  the  falcon,  and  follow  the  grey- 
hound? 

ALESSANDRO  [humorously  crying  out]  Now 
is  her  poniard  out ! 

GISMONDA  [with  increased  bitterness]  To  talk 
hours  with  my  lord  of  the  hunting  of  this  year, 
last  year,  the  year  before  last,  and  so  on  down  to 
babyhood? 

PIETRO  [humbly]  I  have  offended  you?  I  am 
very  sorry. 

[A  pause.  Gismonda  looks  at  him,  her  anger 
dies,  she  just  puts  out  her  hand  in  a  little  unfin- 
ished gesture,  and  says  in  a  low  voice] 

GISMONDA.     Offended !     You ! 

PIETRO  [softly;  with  passion]     Lady! 

[There  is  a  silence.  Gismonda  and  Pietro  sit 
staring  at  each  other.  Alessandro  looks  from  his 
wife  to  Pietro.  When  he  speaks  it  is  in  a  cry  that 
is  sudden,  hoarse,  and  instinctively  savage.  Pietro 
answers  in  the  same  fashion.  The  dialogue  runs 
with  increasing  tension  and  speed  till  Gismonda's 
intervention.] 

ALESSANDRO.     You,  Pietro ! 

PIETRO.     My  lord ! 

ALESSANDRO  [rising]     We  are  done! 

PIETRO  [leaping  up]     You  would  have  me  go? 

ALESSANDRO.     For  your  good ! 

PIETRO.     Speak  more  plainly!     More  plainly! 

ALESSANDRO.     A  command? 

GISMONDA  [rising]      Signor!     My  lord! 

[  15'] 


TORCHES 

[There  is  a  pause.  The  two  men  relax.  Ales- 
sandro  puts  his  hands  before  his  face  a  moment. 
He  speaks  hoarsely,  with  deep  feeling.] 

ALESSANDRO.  I  am  ashamed!  Pardon,  sweet 
lady !  [She  inclines  her  head  in  acknowledgment, 
and  sits.]  Pardon,  dear  Pietro!  What  should 
have  made  me  speak  —  [A  pause.  He  controls 
himself.]  Indeed,  I  meant  no  offense.  I  was 
merely  thinking  of  the  four  hours'  journey  you 
have  yet  to  make  —  Pietro ! 

PIETRO  [still  dazed]  I  do  not  know  what  came 
over  me.  On  the  moment  —  something  in  your 
voice  —  [Excited  by  the  remembrance;  in  a  hard 
voice.]  Yes,  there! 

ALESSANDRO  [gravely;  with  deep  feeling] 
You  know  I  trust  you  as  my  brother.  I  love  you 
as  my  son,  Pietro.  [He  puts  out  his  hand.] 

PIETRO  [touched;  taking  his  hand]     I  know. 

GISMONDA   [quickly]      Wine,  Signer? 

PIETRO  [sitting  down]  Wine,  thanks,  lady. 
[The  negro  boy  serves  him.] 

GISMONDA.     My  lord? 

ALESSANDRO.     Thanks,  no  wine. 
•  GISMONDA.      Saving  wine,  my  supper  —  [with 
a   charming  smile   to   both  men]    in   farewell   to 
you  is  done. 

ALESSANDRO.  For  your  gracious  thought  of 
us,  sweet  Gismonda  —  -  [He  kisses  her  hand.] 

GISMONDA  [with  the  same  kind  and  charming 
smile]  I  must  not  hope  to  trespass  longer  on 
your  time,  my  lord. 

[  16  ] 


TORCHES 

ALESSANDRO  [after  a  moment;  politely] 
Thanks.  I'll  go  change  my  dress.  --  And  Pietro? 

GISMONDA.     Signer  Pietro  is  free. 

ALESSANDRO.  I  have  some  last  instructions  for 
you,  Pietro. 

GISMONDA.  Signor  Pietro  shall  leave  me  —  if 
he  wishes. 

[A  very  short  pause.     Pietro  rises.] 

PIETRO  [to  her]     Pardon! 

GISMONDA  [indifferently]  Oh,  you  must  not 
consider  me,  Signor.  [Pietro  bows,  and  starts 
towards  Alessandro  who  stands  by  the  door  lead- 
ing into  the  castle.  He  has  half  crossed  the  ter- 
race, when  she  suddenly  cries]  Why,  he  has  not 
drunk  his  wine.  —  Pardon,  Signor,  and  sit  down ! 

[Pietro  has  stopped,  and  now  slowly  turns  his 
head  to  look  at  her,  and  he  stands  staring  thus. 
There  is  a  short  silence,  and  then  Alessandro 
breaks  into  harsh,  ironic  laughter.  Pietro  and 
Gismonda  look  sharply  at  him,  and  he  says  in  a 
hard  voice  to  cover  his  laughter] 

ALESSANDRO.  You  are  going  into  Germany, 
Pietro,  like  a  camel  into  the  desert ! 

[He  goes  out.  Gismonda  crosses  the  terrace 
and  looks  for  a  moment,  with  curious  intentness, 
through  the  door  after  Alessandro.  Pietro  stands 
motionless,  watching  her.  Then  he  goes  slowly  to 
the  table,  and  moodily  flings  himself  into  his  chair. 
Gismonda  turns  and  regards  him  a  moment,  moves 
to  the  second  negro  boy,  and  taps  him  on  the 
shoulder.  He  starts.] 


TORCHES 

GISMONDA.  Your  eyes  are  heavy.  Get  you  to 
bed,  and  dream  of  Nubia  !  [Exeunt  negroes.  She 
waits  till  they  are  well  gone,  comes  to  table  where 
Pietro  sits,  and  leans  against  it,  close  to  him,  and 
says  in  a  low  voice]  When  shall  I  give  you 
supper  on  my  terrace  again,  Signer? 

PIETRO  [with  an  effort  at  lightness]  When  I 
return. 

GISMONDA.  //  you  return.  For  you  mean 
never  to  come  back  to  us.  Is  that  not  true?  [He 
is  silent;  she  nods  her  head  sombrely.]  It  is  true. 
Ah.  who  now  will  talk  with  me  in  my  garden? 
[More  lightly,  but  with  purpose]  And  who  now 
will  tag  after  when  I  ride  out  on  my  jennet?  Who 
now  will  hold  my  book  when  I  read  from  the  love 
tales  of  Godfroi  de  Bouillon?  [He  has  risen,  and 
draws  in  his  breath  in  a  sharp  exclamation.  She 
laughs  softly.]  Yes,  —  so  said  my  lord. 

PIETRO  [despairingly]     It  was  a  jest. 

GISMONDA.  Not  five  minutes  since  you  and  my 
lord  each  started  up  like  a  man  wild  to  plunge  his 
knife  into  the  throat  of  the  other. 

PIETRO  [in  a  groan]      Madness  ! 

GISMONDA.  Knowledge,  Signer!  You  have 
found  each  other  out !  You  hate  my  lord,  and 
he- 

PIETRO.  Enough ! !  [She  is  cowed  by  his  tone, 
and  is  silent.]  There  may  be  a  difference  be- 
tween my  lord  and  me.  That  is  for  us  to  settle. 
In  my  heart  I  am  unchanged.  Aiiy  man  who 
sought  to  bring  hate  between  us  I  would  kill.  If 
I  did  not,  with  my  memories,  God  help  me ! 

[  18  ] 


TORCHES 

GISMONDA  [mockingly]  What,  Signer  devo- 
tee !  Shall  you  chant  that  litany  again  ?  How  my 
4ord  gave  you  two  Barbary  horses,  seven  grey- 
hounds for  hunting,  and  five  falcons,  a  suit  of 
silver  armor,  and  fifty  men-at-arms  to  go  with 
you  to  Germany? 

PIETRO  [gravely]  I  have  greater  things  to 
remember  —  -  How  when  my  uncle  murdered  my 
father  and  robbed  me  of  my  heritage,  and  would 
have  murdered  me,  it  was  my  lord  who  saved  me. 
Ten  years  I  have  lived  in  his  house.  He  has  been 
my  father,  and  an  elder  brother  to  me.  Such 
strong  bonds  bind  me  to  him  • —  !  [ He  breaks 
off,  and  after  a  moment  adds,  with  deep  convic- 
tion] I  know  the  duty  owing  to  my  lord. 

GISMONDA  [throwing  up  her  hands  in  rage] 
Oh,  duty !  [Enter  Madonna  Giulia,  a  short,  fat 
woman  of  forty- five.]  My  sweet  Madonna  Giulia! 
Come  to  coquette  with  the  night  wind? 

MADONNA  GIULIA.  Aye,  lady.  Inside  the  air 
is  close. 

GISMONDA.     Nymph,  it  is  rheumatic  here! 

MADONNA  GIULIA.  A  blessed  holy  palmer 
cured  me  forever  of  rheumatism  with  a  drop  of 
Jordan  water  for  which  I  paid  — 

GISMONDA  [acidly]  Yes,  I  know.  [A  pause. 
Madonna  Giulia  settles  herself  on  bench  at  right. 
Pietro  goes  on  the  balcony.]  You  are  broider- 
ing? 

MADONNA  GIULIA.     Aye,  lady. 

GISMONDA.  Let  me  see  your  work.  [She 
crosses  to  Madonna  Giulia,  and  after  a  glance 

[  19  1 


TORCHES 

round  at  Pietro,  says,  in  a  low  voice  of  jury] 
When  I  wish  you  gone,  how  dare  you  settle  here? 

MADONNA  GIULIA  [whimpering}     He  sent  me.» 

GISMONDA.     He? 

MADONNA  GIULIA.     My  lord. 
.GISMONDA.     My  lord!     How  so? 

MADONNA  GIULIA.  He  came  upon  me  where  I 
sat  broidering,  and  said:  "Are  you  not  the  Ladv 
Gismonda's  matron  of  honor,  come  with  her  from 
Rome?"  And  when  I  said,  "Magnificent  and  noble 
lord,  I  am !"  —  a  thing  which  he  knew  very  well  — 
he  said:  "Your  mistress  is  on  the  terrace,"  and 
stood  watching  me  until  I  picked  up  my  work,  and 
came  here. 

GISMONDA.     How  did  he  look? 

MADONNA  GIULIA  [after  a  pause}  Sad.  [Con- 
scious of  an  inadequacy;  with  a.  vague  gesture} 
But  more  than  sad. 

GISMONDA.  Ah!  [After  a  moment;  in  a  hard 
voice}  Well?  You  have  come.  That  was  his 
command.  Now  hear  mine :  —  Get  you  back 
again. 

MADONNA  GIULIA  [in  protest}     Lady! 

GISMONDA.  Are  you  in  my  service  or  my 
lord's?  [Madonna  Giulia  drops  a  frightened 
curtsey.}  Then  go  into  my  chamber  there  and 
watch  for  me,  and  give  me  warning  when  my  lord 
comes.  Serve  me  well  tonight,  and  you  shall  ask 
what  you  please.  Because  tonight  —  [She  raises 
her  arms,  whispering}  This  night.  .  .  . 

MADONNA  GIULIA.  Aie!  Aie!  Take  care! 
He- 

[  20  ] 


TORCHES 

GISMONDA  [striking  her  hard  across  the  mouth] 
Go !  [Exit  Madonna  Giulia.  She  turns  towards 
Pietro.]  Signer! 

PIETKO  [He  comes  down  to  her.~\  My  lord  is 
waiting  for  me.  If  you  will  excuse  me  — 

GISMONDA.     Not  yet! 

PIETKO.     I  must  go ! 

GISMONDA  [in  a  low,  bitter  voice]  And  leave 
me  to  all  these  middle-aged  — -?  [She  breaks  off, 
studies  his  unyielding  face  for  a  moment,  and 
suddenly  moves  away  from  him,  angrily  crying] 
Oh,  why  did  I  ever  leave  Rome?  In  Rome  were 
plays,  tourneys,  masques,  dancing.  In  Rome  I 
was  loved !  In  Rome  there  were  men  to  whom  my 
favor  was  of  more  moment  than  a  cameo  or  a 
parchment !  I  am  freezing  here !  Say  my  lord 
loves  me :  —  Is  it  as  a  woman  should  be  loved  ? 
Is  it  I  who  count  always  first  with  him,  more  to 
him  than  his  whole  world?  Oh,  I  know  that  I  have 
value !  I  count  among  his  treasures  !  I  adorn  his 
museum  along  with  other  such  treasures  as  this 
fan,  that  statue,  or  that,  or  that,  or  this  tinted 
Murano  glass!  [She  holds  up  the  wine  glass.] 
Yes,  doubtless  my  rank  is  equal  with  this  goblet ! 
Or  less  exalted,  for  he  got  me  gratis  in  Rome, 
with  a  dowry  beside,  while  he  got  this  crystal  from 
Murano  and  paid  a  great  price  for  it!  And  as 
for  you,  Signor  —  !  [A  pause.  She  lowers  her 
voice,  and  finishes  irrelevantly]  Why  do  you  go  to 
Germany  ? 

PIETRO.     To  make  my  fortune. 

GISMONDA.     My  lord  would  advance  you  here. 

[21   ] 


TORCHES 

Still  you  go.  So  that  is  not  your  reason,  and 
when  you  say  it  is,  you  lie.  [A  pause.]  I  know 
your  reason. 

PIETIIO  [involuntarily]      No! 

GISMONDA.  Let  me  satisfy  you.  [He  puts  up 
his  hand  in  protest.]  Bah!  You  are  afraid! 
[She  comes  closer.]  You  see  that  I  know. 

PIETRO  [despite  himself]      I  am  glad ! 

GISMONDA   [triumphant]     Ah,  then  — ! 

PIETRO.     It  must  not  be  spoken. 

GISMONDA.  You  fear  words?  What  of 
thoughts  .  .  .  when  you  would  sin  against  your 
friend? 

PIETRO.  No  !  Fore  God  I  love  you  —  differ- 
ently ! 

GISMONDA.     So  cold,  Signer? 

PIETRO.  Cold?  Christ !  if  I  am  eaten  up,  sick, 
mad  —  if  I  am  struck  down,  shall  I  then  strike 
down  my  friend  ? 

GISMONDA.     Hah !     My  lord  again ! 

PIETRO.     I  have  his  trust! 

GISMONDA.  Are  you  stone?  Do  not  you  love 
me?  Do  not  you  love  me?  [He  is  rigid,  im- 
movable, makes  no  sign.]  Oh,  you  fool!  [She 
sweeps  toward  the  door,  hesitates,  looks  cunningly 
round  at  him,  pauses  a  moment,  and  turns  to 
him.]  You  think  my  lord  trusts  you? 

PIETRO  [struck  by  her  tone;  imperiously]  He 
trusts  me !  I  know  him  well ! 

GISMONDA.     You  did  know  him. 

PIETRO.  If  we  are  less  close,  the  fault  is  mine. 
I  have  not  been  open  with  him,  whereas  he  has  been 
[  22  ] 


TORCHES 

all  patience.     Even  to  my  departure,  though  I 
furnished  no  good  reason,  he  has  put  no  hindrance. 

GISMONDA.     He  has  even  given  you  every  aid. 

PIETRO.  Yes.  —  He  has.  [A  pause]  What 
would  you  say  to  me? 

GISMONDA.  I  think  he  knows  everything.  I 
think  he  is  glad  to  get  you  gone. 

PIETRO.     You  have  seen  him  grieve. 

GISMONDA.     There's  his  cunning. 

PIETRO.  What  need  should  there  be  of  cun- 
ning between  my  lord  and  me?  Always  we  have 
been  honest  with  each  other. 

GISMONDA.     Before  he  grew  jealous. 

PIETRO  [laughing]  Jealous?  Pah!  That's  not 
his  nature ! 

GISMONDA.     It  is  the  nature  of  a  husband. 

PIETRO.  He  jealous !  My  lord  jealous  !  Come ! 
I  do  not  like  this  jest!  [A  pause]  Ha!  Would 
he  then  have  left  us  two  alone  together?  Answer 
that !  [She  throws  back  her  head,  and  laughs  a 
long  peal  of  laughter]  Why  do  you  laugh?  [She 
laughs  again]  You  know  something  I  do  not? 

GISMONDA  [mockingly]  Why,  what  do  you 
know? 

PIETRO  [with  angry  despair]  You  are  making 
game  of  me! 

GISMONDA  [seriously]   When  I  pity  you? 

PIETRO.     I  want  no  pity  !     Only  the  truth !  - 
Come!     You  know  something  which  concerns  my 
lord  and  me? 

GISMONDA    [after    a    moment]    Yes. 

PIETRO.     Then  you  must  out  with  it! 
[  23  ] 


TORCHES 

GlSMONDA.       Must? 

PIETRO.  Aye,  must!  For  if  my  lord  has  be- 
trayed me,  if  he  distrusts  me  —  !  [He  raises  his 
clenched  fist.] 

GISMONDA  [sanctimoniously]  I  would  not  make 
trouble  between  my  lord  and  you. 

PIETRO  [between  his  teeth]  Give  me  the  truth ! 
[A  pause]  Quick!  What  has  he  done? 

GISMONDA.     Put  a  spy  on  us ! 

PIETRO.     No  !     That's  not  true ! 

GISMONDA.     Madonna  Giulia! 

PIETRO  [parroting]  Madonna  Giulia?  [As  he 
understands;  in  a  burst  of  rage]  She  then! 

GISMONDA.  Wait !  He  came  to  her,  and  said : 
"Go,  sit  on  the  terrace,  mark  the  lovers  well,  how 
they  stare  with  their  souls  quick,  how  they  lean 
to  each  other  —  " 

PIETRO.     Oh,  this  is  not  like  my  lord! 

GISMONDA.     It  is  very  like  a  jealous  man. 

PIETRO  [scornfully,  with  rage]  Play  the  hypo- 
crite! Set  a  spy! 

GISMONDA.  But  faithful  to  me.  There  is 
more:— "See all!  Hear  all !"  he  said  to  her.  "You 
shall  have  a  gold  chain  of  an  hundred  links,  if 
you  find  them  —  as  I  know  them  —  guilty !" 

PIETRO  [slowly]  "As  he  knows  us  ...  guilty !" 
He  said  tonight:  "I  trust  you  as  my  brother" 
...  [A  pause.  He  bursts  into  terrible  laugh- 
ter] "Brother!"  .  .  .  "Trust!"  .  .  .  "Trust!" 
.  .  .  He  makes  a  fool  of  me !  A  spy !  That's  his 
trust  —  We  are  quits !  I  owe  him  nothing !  [  With 
menacing  emphasis]  Now  I  can  hate  you  .  .  . 
[24  ] 


TORCHES 

[He  puts  his  arm  over  his  eyes.    Almost  in  a  sob} 
Brother ! 

[She  comes  to  him,  takes  away  his  arm  from 
before  his  eyes,  and  looks  hard  at  him} 

GISMONDA  [with  deep  scorn}  Is  that  your  hate? 

PIETRO.  With  all  these  years,  does  he  know 
me  so  little? 

GISMONDA  [coming  close  to  him}  Do  you  know 
yourself?  [with  passion}  Pietro ! 

PIETRO  [in  bitter  sadness}  Are  we  come  to  this? 
—  "As  he  knows  us,  guilty  .  .  .  !  " 

GISMONDA  [her  arms  sliding  round  his  neck} 
I  know  myself.  I  love  you !  Do  you  know  your- 
self, Pietro? 

PIETRO  [in  a  hoarse  cry}  Aye,  now !  [He  takes 
her  in  his  arms,  and  kisses  her}  Only  you  count 
with  me  now !  Only  you ! 

GISMONDA.     That  is  as  I  would  be  loved. 

PIETRO.  This  night  is  mine,  as  you  are !  After- 
wards .  .  .  [A  pause.  He  shakes  off  the  thought ; 
with  increased  passion}  My  men  —  I  can  send 
them  on  alone !  Let  me  come  back  to  you ! 

GISMONDA  [breaking  away  from  him}  Are  you 
mad  ? 

PIETRO  .     With  love !     Give  me  rendez-vous  ! 

GISMONDA.  There  is  an  old  song  where  a  lover 
asks  for  rendez-vous.  It  has  an  ironical  ending. 

PIETRO.  We  are  past  trifling!  Give  me  an 
answer ! 

GISMONDA.     Would  you  ruin  me? 

PIETRO.  No  one  shall  know.  I  shall  take  road 
[  25  ] 


TORCHES 

for  Germany,  send  on  my  men,  return,  and  wait 
in  the  garden  below.  Some  signal  there  must  be 
.  .  .  When  he  sets  out  for  Brescia  — 

GISMONDA  [in  an  eager  whisper]  Signor ! 

PIETRO.  Aye,  when  he  goes,  put  out  the 
torches.  I  can  climb  up  the  wall  .  .  .  there  are 
ledges  and  copings  for  foothold  .  .  . 

GISMONDA  [shrilly]  What !  Shall  I  take  such 
risks ! 

PIETRO  [with  menace]  You  said  you  love  me ! 
You  spoke  truth? 

GISMONDA  [afraid]  I  love  you. 

PIETRO.  Then  tonight  you  will  yourself  put 
out  these  torches,  and  wait  here  alone,  and  give  me 
rendez-vous.  You  are  my  life.  I  will  not  be 
denied ! 

Enter  Madonna  Giulia 

MADONNA  GIULIA.     Lady!     He  is  coming! 

PIETRO.     Give  me  an  answer! 

GISMONDA.  My  answer  or  a  token  of  my  an- 
swer you  shall  have  .  .  .  [She  pauses] 

PIETRO.     Gismonda ! 

GISMONDA  [moving  away;  provokingly]  Before 
you  go ! 

[She  goes  to  the  back  of  the  stage,  picks  up  a 
lute,  and  begins  to  play?  Alessandro  en- 
ters in  traveling  costume,  and  stands  watching 

i  For  the  music  of  this  song  specially  composed  for  this 
play  by  Randall  Thompson  see  pages  28-31. 

[26  ] 


TORCHES 

her.    She  sings  with  a  certain  defiant  passion,  and 
loofcs  at  neither  man.] 

GISMONDA  [singing \ 

You  leave  me,  love? 

These  hands  —  pale  cups  for  your  desire  — 
Would  hold  you  here. 

What  would  you,  sweet? 
Ah,  strange  and  bitter  is  your  wish 
For  rendez-vous ! 

Love  is  enough  .    .   . 
Plead  not !     More  is  not  mine  to  give ! 
[A  pause;  then  in  a  cry] 
Love,  are  you  gone? 

[A  silence.  Suddenly  Alessandro  claps  his 
hands,  murmuring  "Brava!  Brava!"  Gismonda 
throws,  down  the  lute,  and  there  is  general  move- 
ment and  speech.] 

PIETRO  [formally]  I  am  detaining  my  lord.  I 
will  change  my  dress. 

ALESSANDRO.  I  would  have  a  few  words  with 
you,  Pietro. 

PIETRO.  Before  I  go,  my  lord.  [He  bows  to 
them  both,  and  goes  out.] 

ALESSANDRO  [in  dismissal]  Madonna ! 

MADONNA  GIULIA  [with  profound  curtsies]  My 
gracious  lord !  —  Lady ! 

Exit  Madonna  Giulia 
[27  ] 


GISMONDA'S   SONG 

KENNETH  RAISBECK  RANDALL  THOMPSON 


m 


You    leave       me,    love  ? 


fi 


-1-     +j-        -m-     **  -m-     +j- 


#= 


—&- 


These  hands — pale  cups   for  your  de   -  sire — 


m^: 


!  nnr  "5 


p- p|=p=F 


a 


[  28  ] 


GISMONDA'S  SONG 


jz=d8=*=t= 


What  would    you,     sweet  ? 
8va  8va  8va 

:|=4 


Ah, 


!^HM=H 


1  8va 


IE, 


4=M ft L-«5— i — » L; 

*•-  **-  + 


fe* 


strange  and     bit  -  ter  is   your  wish 


For 


m 


3: 


i 


1 *- 


tl3t 


ren    -    dez  -  vous. 


3E^ 


m 


[  29 


GISMONDA'S  SONG 

/  WL_ 


— P P-  —  &-i 

J— *4 


Love       is     e  -  nough,  Love    .       e-nough 


slit 

-£ft 


3 


gwasf  recitative 

e  ad  libitum 


fe==4 


t-rrt 


aC3t3t3t 


1 


Plead  not  ! 


More  is  not  mine  to  give. 


s 


[  30] 


GISMONDA'S  SONG 


1=' 


Love,are  you  gone? 


L.H. 


conped. 


ffi 


^ 


rit. 


gone? 


S3 


[31  ] 


TORCHES 

GISMONDA  [to  make  conversation]  So  you  like 
my  song? 

ALESSANDRO  [taking  the  cue]  It  is  charming. 
But  it  has  set  me  to  wondering  if  to  every  woman 
there  is  love. 

GISMONDA.  I  must  catch  you  up,  my  lord! 
"There  speaks  Rome !  " 

ALESSANDRO.  With  a  difference.  Love  might 
come  to  you  unknown.  Then  I  should  only  pity 
you,  as  God  knows  I  pity  all  men  and  women  who 
love  despite  themselves. 

GISMONDA  [lightly]  But  if  I  took  a  lover? 

ALESSANDRO  [after  a  moment;  with  grave  em- 
phasis] My  house  is  a  great  house.  My  name  is  an 
old  name,  and  there  is  no  stain  on  it.  I  could  not 
live  dishonored.  You  must  feel  that  too.  You 
are  my  wife.  You  have  custody  of  my  fair  fame. 
There  can  be  no  trifling  with  that,  you  under- 
stand. 

GISMONDA  [sanctimoniously]  It  would  be  sinful 
to  love  any  but  you,  my  lord. 

ALESSANDRO  [after  a  pause]  Gismonda,  give 
me  an  honest  answer!  Do  you  love  me? 

GISMONDA  [with  abandon]  As  my  life,  sweet 
lord! 

ALESSANDRO  [unmoved;  quietly]  Lies  anger  me. 
You  need  not  fear  to  speak  the  truth. 

GISMONDA  [exaggerating;  with  an  undertone 
of  insolent  irony]  As  you  love  your  honor,  do  I 
love  you ! 

ALESSANDRO  [in  a  burst  of  rage]  Am  I  a 
dotard  to  be  gulled? 

[  32  ] 


TORCHES 

GISMONDA  [frightened]  My  lord! 

ALESSANDRO.  Or  do  you  fear  I  shall  let  drive 
my  dagger  through  your  breast  when  you  speak 
truth  and  say :  "My  lord,  I  do  not  love  you !" 

GISMONDA  [forcing  a  tear]  To  speak  thus  .  .  . 
just  as  we  part  .  .  .  unkind  .  .  .  ! 

ALESSANDRO  [relaxing;  ironic ally]  What!  Shall 
you  pine  for  me? 

GISMONDA.  I  shall  be  cold  as  ice  and  dull  as 
ditch  water  in  your  absence. 

ALESSANDRO.  Cold  I  would  have  you,  but  not 
dull.  This  afternoon  there  came  a  train  of  pack 
mules  to  the  castle. 

GISMONDA  [sitting;  indifferently]  You  told  me. 
Laden  with  provender,  I  believe? 

ALESSANDRO.  To  stave  off  boredom.  Trifles 
for  your  amusement. 

GISMONDA  [leaning  back;  indolently]  Greek 
sermons,  doubtless? 

ALESSANDRO.  Thirteen  carved  chests  painted 
in  ultramarine  and  gold  leaf  —  a  chest  for  each 
day  I  am  gone. 

GISMONDA.  A  pretty  sentiment.  But  you  shall 
pay  forfeit  if  you  extend  your  absence  by  so  much 
as  —  half  a  chest.  [ Just  not  yawning]  Pray, 
what  do  these  chests  contain? 

ALESSANDRO.     Stuffs  for  your  adornment. 

GISMONDA  [showing  interest]  Ah! 

ALESSANDRO.  Velvets  from  the  Orient.  Furs 
from  India.  Perfumes  and  embroideries  from 
Arabia. 

GISMONDA.     Oh,  my  dear  lord! 
[  33  ] 


TORCHES 

ALESSANDRO.  You  shall  make  choice  from 
trays  of  gems. 

GISMONDA.     Gems !     You  have  got  me  gems  ! 

ALESSANDRO.  Anachimo  of  Ferrara  has  tooled 
you  an  Orpheus  on  a  turquoise.  From  Florence 
there  comes  a  carnelian  engraved  with  an  Om- 
phale,  walking  nude.  These  are  all  that  I  re- 
member. 

GISMONDA.  Most  magnificent  and  sweet  lord! 
-  You  have  the  list  ? 

ALESSANDRO  [showing  it]  It  is  here. 

GISMONDA  [reaching  for  it]  Quick! 

ALESSANDRO  [putting  it  in  his  breast]  First  I 
must  talk  with  you. 

GISMONDA.     Later ! 

ALESSANDRO.     Now.     About  you. 

GISMONDA  [relenting]  Well? 

ALESSANDRO.  And  me.  [She  gives  him  a 
sharp  look,  but  says  nothing]  When  we  married 
I  was  forty-seven,  you  seventeen.  Come!  Did 
not  seventeen  make  a  barren  contract? 

GISMONDA.  No  better  marriage  was  made  by 
any  lady  of  Rome  that  year. 

ALESSANDRO.  Aye,  set  your  dowry  against 
my  name,  my  lands,  this  fair  castle  adorned  with 
frescoes  and  surrounded  with  avenues  of  plane 
trees  and  acacias:  the  scales  tip  even.  But  you 
brought  something  beside :  youth ! 

GISMONDA.  When  I  have  so  kind  and  generous 
a  lord,  a  fig  for  those  thirty  years ! 

ALESSANDRO.  So  thought  I.  A  fig  for  them ! 
Why,  here  had  Pietro  been  with  me  since  boy- 

t  34  J 


TORCHES 

hood,  with  never  a  thought  of  the  weary  quarter 
century  between  us.  It  seemed  that  it  should 
be  so  with  you  and  me.  It  seemed  there  would 
be  three  young  people  in  the  castle.  So  there 
were  at  first.  Oh,  what  a  blind  fool  was  I,  think- 
ing we  should  always  .  .  .  Was  I  not  absurd, 
Gismonda? 

GISMONDA  [a  little  patronizingly]  There  is 
hardly  a  difference  between  you  and  us. 

ALESSANDRO  [ironically]  That's  kind  of  you.  — 
But  I  saw  a  difference.  There  were  glances  be- 
tween you  and  Pietro  which  I  did  not  understand. 

GISMONDA  [disturbed]  You  have  imagined  this, 
my  lord ! 

ALESSANDRO.  You  fell  silent  when  I  came  into 
the  room  — 

GISMONDA  [fearful]  No! 

ALESSANDRO.  You  laughed  at  things  I  did  not 
find  amusing.  Then  Pietro  no  longer  gave  me  his 
confidence.  He  talked  to  me  in  the  conventional, 
trite  fashion  that  young  people  use  with  those 
they  consider  old.  Old!  Then  I  knew! 

GISMONDA  [breathing  relief]  Ah! 

ALESSANDRO.  Old !  How  droll  it  is :  at  forty- 
seven  !  The  very  flush  of  life,  one  would  suppose. 
I  know  better.  So  will  you  some  day,  Gismonda, 
when  those  eyes  that  are  like  the  eyes  of  the  pere- 
grine falcon  are  pouched  and  dull.  Live  with 
seventeen  and  twenty-two  and  love  them:  You 
are  old ! 

GISMONDA  [superficially]  No,  no,  my  lord!  I 
am  sure  .  .  .  [Her  voice  trails  off.  A  pause] 
[  35  ] 


TORCHES 

If  that  is  all,  my  dear  lord,  give  me  the  list. 
Please!  This  is  such  bitter  preachment. 

ALESSANDRO.  Bitter  truth.  Do  not  think  me 
peevishly  complaining  that  I  have  not  youth's 
privileges.  I  have  others  .  .  ..  [With  the  ghost  of 
a  smile]  those  of  my  forty-seven  years.  I  am  con- 
tent with  them.  [With  real  tenderness]  It  is  not  I 
but  you,  my  sweet  Gismonda,  who  will  suffer  more 
in  these  next  years.  Our  contract  was  not  fair. 
But  it  holds.  It  will  hold  till  I  die.  You  are 
bound  to  me.  You  do  not  love  me,  but  you  are 
my  wife.  Is  not  that  a  hard  bargain? 

GISMONDA  [petulantly]  I  know  of  no  bargain. 

AL.ESSANDRO  [with  deep  feeling]  It  is  this,  Gis- 
monda:—  Be  most  discreet.  Guard  your  fair 
fame  as  jealously  as  I  do.  If  you  should  love,  that 
day  take  your  soul  into  your  own  hands.  Know 
yourself.  Love  if  you  will,  but  make  no  sign ! 

GISMONDA.     This  is  idle  talk. 

ALESSANDRO  [in  a  burst  of  rage]  How,  then! 
Are  not  you  in  love? 

GISMONDA  [shrilly]  Who  says  that? 

ALESSANDRO  [angrily]  Who  says  it?  Do 
you  think  I  deal  in  spies  and  informers  to  tell  on 
my  wife?  I  question,  not  accuse. 

GISMONDA  [panting]  Ah!  [A  pause]  In  love? 
With  you. 

ALESSANDRO  [bitterly]  I  did  wrong  to  ask.  It 
is  in  the  bargain  that  I  will  not  ask. 

GISMONDA  [coaxingly]  Come,  my  gracious  lord ! 
Enough  !  You  have  been  wordier  than  usual,  with 
less  meaning.  You  are  moody  tonight  —  the  heat 
[  36  ] 


TORCHES 

has  tired  you,  and  made  you  restless.  [She  takes 
his  hand,  leaning  against  him,  with  her  head  on 
his  breast]  Here  is  your  Gismonda  to  comfort  and 
quiet  you  ...  so  ...  [She  kisses  his  hand] 
And  with  love  words :  sweet  lord !  [  Just  so  soon  as 
she  thinks  safe,  in  the  same  flute  notes]  Now  give 
me  the  list ! 

[He  stares  unseeing.  He  takes  the  list  from 
his  breast,  and  smiling  bitterly,  gives  it  to  her.] 

ALESSANDRO.     And    my    bargain,    Gismonda? 

GISMONDA  [still  holding  his  hand  in  one  of 
hers;  reading  from  the  list]  "From  Venice  em- 
eralds and  rubies,  heliotrope,  jasper,  and  sard" 
—  Oh,  magnificence!  .  .  .  What  did  you  say,  my 
good  lord? 

ALESSANDRO.     My  bargain? 

GISMONDA.  Bargain?  "Bales  of  tabi,  watered 
silks  of  wine  color  and  henna  and  egg  blue  from 
Damascus"  —  Damascus !  Think  of  that !  .  .  . 
What  bargain,  my  lord? 

ALESSANDRO  [taking  her  by  the  wrists]  Do  you 
not  remember? 

GISMONDA.     But  you  were  jesting! 

ALESSANDRO.  I  was  not  jesting.  For  God's 
sake,  do  not  laugh,  Gismonda !  I  am  trusting  you. 
I -am  giving  you  my  whole  trust.  It  is  our  lives 
you  are  deciding. 

GISMONDA.  I  will  be  serious,  if  you  wish.  Yes, 
if  it  is  a  bargain,  I  will  be  as  serious  as  a  Jew 
at  business.  And  I  will  tell  you  that  it  is  no  bar- 
gain unless  you  throw  in  that  ruby  I  have  coveted 
[  37  ] 


TORCHES 

so  long,  the  balass  ruby  —  Aie !  Aie !  You  are 
hurting  my  wrists !  [He  flings  down  her  wrists 
with  restrained  violence,  and  turns  sharply  away. 
She  says,  nursing  her  wrists]  The  bargain? 

ALESSANDRO  [in  a  hard  voice]  Done ! 

GISMONDA  [seizing  his  ring  hand]  The1  ruby! 
Quick ! 

ALESSANDRO  [closing  his  fist  so  that  she  can- 
not get  at  the  ring]  You  must  wait! 

GISMONDA  [pulling  at  his  finger]  Not  a  minute. 
.  ALESSANDRO.     Half   an  hour !    [Pushing  away 
her  hands;  grimly]  Till  I  see  how  you  keep  your 
bargain. 

GISMONDA  [in  high  feather]  Well!  So  be  it! 
You  shall  see!  [Reading  from  the  list]  "Gold 
brocade  patterned  over  with  leopards  and  doves 
and  eagles"  —  My  lord !  Let  me  have  up  a  few 
of  these  stuffs  now!  To  console  me  for  your  de- 
parture! To  keep  me  from  .  .  .  [A  pause,  as 
she  remembers  the  rendez-vous.] 

ALESSANDRO.     From  going  stupidly  to  bed? 

GISMONDA  [laughing  as  she  goes  out]  Aye! 
From  going  stupidly  to  bed ! 

[In  the  doorway  she  passes  Pietro  who  has 
changed  into  traveling  dress,  with  dagger  and 
trailing  gold  spurs.  She  drops  him  an  ironic 
curtsey,  murmuring  "Signor!"  Something  in  her 
tone  makes  him  look  hard  after  her,  without  bow- 
ing. After  a  moment  he  turns  to  Alessandro.] 

PIETRO.     You  have  some  last  instructions? 

ALESSANDRO.  No.  I  wanted  a  few  words  with 
you  —  alone. 

[  38  ] 


TORCHES 

PIETRO  [restive]  It  is  late. 

ALESSANDRO.  Do  not  fear..  [A  pause.  He  in- 
dicates a  chair  for  Pietro,  and  both  men  sit  down] 
A  month  ago  you  asked  permission  to  leave  my 
service.  You  wished  me  not  to  question  you.  I 
have  trusted  you  absolutely.  I  gave  you  permis- 
sion, and  asked  you  no  questions. 

PIETRO.  Have  you  not  discovered  why  I  go 
to  Germany? 

ALESSANDRO.     You  have  told  me  nothing. 

PIETRO.  There  are  more  subtle  ways  of  gain- 
ing information. 

ALESSANDRO.  There  is  only  one  way  of  trust- 
ing. When  for  the  first  time  in  your  life  you 
withheld  your  confidence  from  me  —  because  it 
was  the  first  time,  because  I  trusted  you  —  I  felt 
I  must  let  you  decide  whether  or  no  silence  were 
wise.  Still  my  instinct  told  me  that  we  should  be 
honest  in  this  as  in  all  things  before.  [A  pause] 
Can  you  not  trust  me,  Pietro? 

PIETRO.  Just  so  much  as  you  have  trusted 
me,  do  I  trust  you,  my  lord. 

ALESSANDRO  [with  relief]  I  needed  that  assur- 
ance. 

PIETRO.  I  could  not  change  unless  you  did,  my 
lord.  [A  pause]  Perhaps  those  words  —  astonish 
you? 

ALESSANDRO.  Not  the  words.  I  have  been 
longing  for  them.  But  your  tone  —  You  are  not 
speaking  lightly,  Pietro? 

PIETRO.  I  spoke  truth.  I  said  I  could  not 
change  unless  you  did. 

[  39  ] 


TORCHES 

ALESSANDRO.  Then  there  is  no  bitterness  in 
your  going.  You  have  been  closer  to  me  than  any 
other  man.  You  are  still.  So  long  as  you  leave 
me  understanding  that,  this  separation  can  do 
our  friendship  no  hurt.  Even  if  you  should  not 
return,  we  should  have  the  memory  of  these  ten 
years  untouched  by  distrust  —  Why  do  you 
smile? 

PIETRO    [with  a  shrug]    From   a   light  heart. 

[A  pause.    Alessandro  bursts  out] 

ALESSANDRO.     Pietro,  have  you  heard  me? 

PIETRO  [unmoved]  Everything. 

ALESSANDRO.  Then  our  future  rests  with  you. 
I  have  done  all  I  can.  You  make  me  feel  that  I 
have  wasted  words  —  that  you  are  untouched  by 
all  that  I  am  thinking  and  feeling.  [Deeply  moved, 
he  rises  and  goes  upstage.  After  a  pause,  to  make 
conversation]  I  shall  take  no  pleasure  in  my 
horses  this  year.  [Pietro  smiles  sardonically.  A 
pause. ]  If  you  establish  yourself  abroad  I  shall 
be  glad  to  send  you  some  of  my  Barbary  stock. 
You  love  fine  horses  so.  [A  pause.  He  pours 
out  a  cup  of  wine.]  We  shall  not  soon  drink  wine 
together  again. 

[Pietro  accepts  the  cup,  carries  it  toward  his 
lips,  hesitates,  and  with  decision  puts  it  down] 

PIETRO  [staccato]  I  am  not  thirsty. 

ALESSANDRO.  It  is  the  stirrup  cup.  [A  pause] 
The  cup  of  friendship. 

PIETRO.     I  will  not  drink  with  you. 

ALESSANDRO.  Pietro!  [He  comes  round  the 
table]  What  has  come  over  you? 

[  40  ] 


TORCHES 

PIETRO.  Go  through  with  your  pretense,  I 
cannot.  I  am  sick  of  lies. 

ALESSANDRO.     What  lies? 

PIETRO.  All  that  tonight  you  have  pretended 
—  this  hypocrisy !  —  Oh,  if  ever  we  were  friends 
let  us  hate  nobly ! 

ALESSANDRO.  Come!  Speak  out,  or  we  shall 
get  nowhere!  How  have  I  played  you  double? 
[A  pause]  Can  you  not  answer  me? 

PIETRO.  Why  should  I  tell  you  what  you 
know  ? 

ALESSANDRO.  There  can  be  no  quarrel  Be- 
tween us,  save  through  misunderstanding.  We 
shall  run  in  circles  unless  you  answer  my  ques- 
tions. Let  us  settle  this  like  reasonable  men. 

PIETRO.     I  will  not  talk  with  you ! 

ALESSANDRO  [after  a  pause]  What  do  you 
want?  Would  you  pick  a  quarrel  with  me,  like 
a  common  bully?  Is  that  your  mood? 

PIETRO.  My  mood  is  for  traveling.  The  moon 
is  up.  I  have  a  journey  to  go. 

ALESSANDRO.  And  I.  This  comes  first. 
[A  pause]  You  are  not  open  with  me.  That  is 
unlike  you.  You  are  shielding  someone  — 

PIETRO  [sharply]  No! 

ALESSANDRO  [driving  him  hard]  Then  if  the 
grievance  rests  with  us  alone  you  will  speak  out. 

PIETRO    [with  increased  tension]  I  say  no ! 

ALESSANDRO.  I  have  played  you  false,  eh?  You 
will  tell  me  in  what  way,  unless  you  are  somehow 
bound  ...  to  someone  — 

PIETRO  [violently]  No  one! 

[  41   ] 


TORCHES 

ALESSANDRO.  Ten  months  since  I  sent  you  to 
Rome  to  bring  me  Gismonda  — 

PIETRO  [sucking  in  his  breath]  Ah! 

ALESSANDRO  [with  triumph]  Why  do  you  put 
hand  to  dagger? 

PIETRO.     Go  on! 

ALESSANDRO.  When  first  you  rode  into  the 
town  by  her  litter,  even  then  my  heart  said  —  [He 
pauses] 

PIETRO.  Go  on!  [He  waits.  Tortured]  Go 
on! 

ALESSANDRO.  It  were  better  if  she  came  as  the 
bride  of  Pietro ! 

PIETRO  [moving  toward  him  with  his  dagger 
out]  Would  you  trick  me? 

ALESSANDRO.  You  fool,  am  I  or  your  con- 
science teasing  you  now?  How  shall  you  keep 
your  secret?  By  killing  me  and  all  those  after 
me  who  find  you  out?  [A  pause.  Pietro  flings 
down  his  dagger.  After  a  moment  Alessandro 
moves  to  him.  Compassionately]  These  two 
months  I  have  seen  you  torturing  yourself. 

PIETRO.     Give  me  no  pity! 

ALESSANDRO.  She  has  played  on  you  cruelly. 
Her  beauty  —  her  charm  —  I  know  how,  with  a 
man  like  you,  she  can  enslave  you  body  and  spirit. 
If  you  were  a  libertine  I  should  let  you  alone.  It 
is  because  she  has  involved  in  you  both  desire  and 
a  real  love  that  I  talk  with  you. 

PIETRO.     Do  not  speak  of  her ! 

ALESSANDRO.  I  speak  of  her,  my  wife,  only 
because  I  must  save  you  from  the  bitter  disillu- 
[  42  ] 


TORCHES 

sion  I  have  known.  For  this  woman  to  come  be- 
tween us  two  —  Futile !  [More  quietly]  Impos- 
sible !  It  is  you  and  I  who  count  —  what  we  have 
brought  through  these  ten  years  —  \Pietro  makes 
an  impatient  gesture.  With  force]  We  must  not 
quarrel !  We  are  not  man  and  woman  to  kiss  each 
other  into  love  again!  Between  men  are  only 
words.  In  God's  name,  let  us  choose  those  words 
with  care ! 

PIETRO.     I  am  sick  of  words! 

ALESSANDRO  [angered]  Would  you  like  deeds? 
You  and  I  have  enemies.  Shall  I  save  them  the 
trouble  of  putting  you  to  the  rack?  Are  you  in 
their  pay  to  slit  my  throat? 

PIETRO.     Oh,  could  you  think  that  of  me! 

ALESSANDRO.  If  you  were  a  woman  who  proved 
false,  no  matter!  Woman  is  weak.  She  can  do 
us  no  hurt.  But  we  are  men  together,  and  these 
are  troubled  times.  Man  must  keep  faith  with 
man,  or  his  possessions,  his  life,  his  reputation, 
his  honor  —  all  are  in  danger ! 

PIETRO.  We  have  no  quarrel,  if  you  will  let 
me  go ! 

ALESSANDRO.  You  could  go  thus  from  me, 
Pietro?  [A  pause]  For  ten  years  you  have 
lived  here  in  the  castle.  For  ten  years  this  has 
been  your  home.  Can  you  talk  so  on  your  last 
night  here?  Do  not  memories  haunt  and  shame 
you? 

PIETRO  [harshly]  I  have  no  memories. 

ALESSANDRO  [with  purpose]  When  I  look  back 
on  our  ten  years  together  —  so  many  dawns  that 
[  43  ] 


TORCHES 

we  have  ridden  to  the  hunt  —  so  many  weary  vig- 
ils when  we  were  in  danger  — 

PIETRO.     Men's  hearts  change  to  one  another. 

ALESSANDRO  [with  purpose}  When  you  were 
younger  —  do  you  remember  how  you  slipped  off 
into  the  forest,  and  were  gone  two  days  and  re- 
turned half  dead  with  weariness,  dragging  after 
you  a  buck  for  my  birthday?  What  kept  vou 
sleepless  in  the  forest  those  two  days  and  nights, 
Pietro? 

PIETRO.  You  would  move  me  with  memories. 
I  will  not  be  moved !  I  will  not ! 

ALESSANDRO.  You  cannot  know  what  tender- 
ness it  used  to  move  in  me  to  see  you  aping  my 
way  of  laughing,  my  way  of  being  angry.  Then 
when  Malfi  came  down  from  the  mountains  to 
plunder  and  destroy  —  you  remember  those  times, 
Pietro? 

PIETRO  [with  a  sudden  glow~\  I  remember. 

ALESSANDRO.  In  those  dread  days  and  nights, 
to  have  you  no  longer  a  boy  but  a  man  whom  I 
could  lean  on,  whom  I  could  trust  —  I  took  new 
life!  Then  to  know  that  other  men  thought  well 
of  you  .  .  .  yes,  that  last  .  .  .  that  meant  much 
to  me! 

PIETRO  [breaking]  My  lord,  when  you  speak 
thus  — 

ALESSANDRO.     Yes,  Pietro? 

PIETRO.     If  you  had  kept  that  trust  in  me  — 

ALESSANDRO  [slowly']  If  I  had  kept  that  trust 
in  you  .  .  .  [A  pause.  He  regards  Pietro,  slowly 
nods  his  head,  and  ashs~\  How  came  that  little 
[  44  ] 


TORCHES 

scar  on  jour  right  cheek,  Pietro?  [Pietro  does 
not  answer]  The  boar  that  turned  ugly  and  ran 
at  me  —  he  nicked  you  there.  What  made  you 
risk  your  life  for  me,  Pietro?  [Pietro  does  not 
answer]  When  it  comes  winter  I  shall  limp  a  little. 
Why? 

PIETRO.  When  we  were  besieged  .  .  .  the 
catapult  .  .  .  [He  covers  his  eyes  with  his  hands.] 
My  lord ! 

ALESSANDRO.     Need  we  talk  of  trust? 

PIETRO  [after  a  pause]  You  did  not  put  a  spy 
on  me? 

ALESSANDRO.  Do  you  think  I  hold  your  loyalty 
so  cheap? 

PIETRO.  I  know  you  do  not.  [A  pause.]  For 
ten  years  your  house  has  been  my  home.  For 
ten  years  your  strength  has  been  ready  at  my 
need.  For  ten  years  you  have  guided  and  moulded 
me.  All  my  beliefs  are  borrowed  from  you.  To 
keep  your  faith  has  been  the  law  of  my  Ife.  .  I 
would  have  said  that  no  thing  but  the  greatest 
could  come  between  us  two  and  yet  this  lie  — 

ALESSANDRO.     It  is  dead. 

PIETRO  [in  bitter  sadness]  The  lie  is  dead.  But 
the  wish  to  believe  it  —  the  wish  to  justify  my 
hate  of  you  —  the  wish  to  play  the  traitor  — 

ALESSANDRO.     You  are  no  traitor ! 

PIETRO.     You  do  not  know  me! 

ALESSANDRO.  You  and  I  understand  each  other 
as  no  woman  will  ever  understand  us.  What  does 
she  know  of  man's  real  life?  She  scarce  touches 
it. 

[   45   ] 


TORCHES 

PIETRO.  Does  it  matter  whether  she  touches 
our  lives  little  or  much,  when  she  so  changes  them? 

ALESSANDRO.     Nothing -is  changed! 

PIETIIO.     I  am  turned  traitor ! 

ALESSANDRO.  The  Pietro  who  goes  to  Germany 
tonight  lest  he  sin  against  his  friend  is  no  traitor ! 

PIETRO.     I  tell  you  I  am  changed ! 

ALESSANDRO.  You  who  have  stabbed  men  for 
speaking  ill  of  me?  You  who  have  starved  through 
my  lean  days  with  me,  schemed  to  better  my  for- 
tunes, fought  at  my  side,  got  wounds  in  my  stead, 
and  would  have  died  for  me? 

PIETRO.  No  more!  [He  drops  sobbing  into  a 
chair.] 

ALESSANDRO.  It  is  that  Pietro  I  shall  remem- 
ber. [A  pause]  You  must  go  from  me  with  your 
soul  assured  on  one  point :  You  conquered  your- 
self when  you  resolved  to  go  away  from  her.  — 
You  cannot  know  what  that  meant  to  me! 

PIETRO.     I  am  not  the  man  you  think  me! 

ALESSANDRO.  No  one  but  you  could  ever  shake 
my  faith  in  you,  and  not  even  you  when  you  prove 
by  deeds  what  now  you  would  destroy  with  words. 

PIETRO.     Enough! 

ALESSANDRO.  In  a  man's  heart  the  deepest 
hunger  is  for  faithfulness.  [With  exultation]  You 
have  kept  faith  with  me ! 

PIETRO  [rising]  Make  an  end !  Make  an  end ! 
Make  an  end ! 

[Gismonda  enters.     She  is  wearing  an  excep- 
tionally brilliant  and  rich  cloak;  her  raised  arms 
are  girdled  with  necklaces,  and  she  is  dangling 
[  46  ] 


TORCHES 

the  stones   against   her  lips   and  cheeks;   she  is 
laughing.    Pietro  starts  toward  her.~\ 

PIETRO.     Lady ! 

GISMONDA  [curtseying  to  the  floor]  Signer! 

PIETRO.     I  am  going. 

GISMONDA.  Going?  [Eagerly  and  softly]  Sig- 
nor!  —  Signor!  [There  is  a  pause.  The  light  in 
her  face  fades;  she  puts  up  her  hand  before  her 
eyes,  as  if  to  strike  away  a  mist.] 

PIETRO.     Yes,  lady. 

GISMONDA  [with  a  cold  little  laugh]  Farewell! 

PIETRO  [in  a  low  voice]  My  answer  —  ? 

GISMONDA.  Farewell!  [He  bows  to  her  and 
goes  out.  She  stands  impassive,  her  eyes  fixed, 
her  fingers  plucking  idly  at  the  silks  and  jewels.] 

ALESSANDRO  [in  a  half-stifled  cry]  Pietro ! 

[Gismonda  just  glances  at  him.  On  the  moment 
she  breaks  into  a  hicjh  hard  laugh  that  slides 
through  an  octave  and  dies  suddenly  in  her  throat. 
He  is  roused  from  his  daze;  he  fixes  her  with  a 
look  of  terrible  hate.  He  comes  to  Tier,  puts  his 
hands  to  her  necklaces,  examines  them  a  moment, 
and  looks  again  at  her.  His  silence,  his  look,  his 
lack  of  deference  to  her  person  fill  her  with  fear; 
she  stands  rigid,  with  dilated  eyes.  His  hands 
crawl  up  the  necklace  until  they  are  come  to  her 
throat;  at  his  touch  her  head  drops  back;  he  draws 
away  his  hands  sharply,  and  moves  up  on  the  bal- 
cony. Madonna  Giulia  enters,  her  arms  laden 
with  velvets,  silks,  and  a  great  feather  fan;  these 
she  lays  on  bench  at  right.] 
[  47  ] 


TORCHES 

MADONNA  GIULIA  [bustling  down  to  Gismonda~\ 
Could  there  be  a  sweeter  confection  in  dress  stuffs 
than  this  blue  velvet  —  just  the  color  our  Holy 
Madonna  wears  in  the  chapel  altar-piece !  I  swear 
that  when  you  wear  it,  lady  - 

GISMONDA  [laying  her  hand  on  the  other's  arm; 
in  a  very  gentle  voice]  Please  do  not  talk  to  me ! 

MADONNA  GIULIA.  You  will  look  just  like  the 
Holy- 

GISMONDA.   [terrifyingly]   Quiet,  you  fool! 

[A  burst  of  trumpets.  A  rose  color  glow  plays 
up  from  the  courtyard  and  illumines  the  balcony 
on  which  Alessandro  stands.  Madonna  Giulia 
runs  to  the  parapet  at  the  back.] 

MADONNA  GIULIA.  They  have  set  off  the  fire- 
works. It  is  clear  as  day! 

GISMONDA  [imperiously]  Madonna ! 

MADONNA  GIULIA  [not  heeding]  What  a  crowd ! 
Yes,  there  he  is !  Viva  Signor ! 

GISMONDA  [her  tension  increasing]  Madonna !  ! 

MADONNA  GIULIA.     Viva  Signor  Pietro! 

GISMONDA.     Madonna  !  !  ! 

MADONNA  GIULIA  [slowly  coming  away]  Yes, 
lady? 

GISMONDA  [in  a  low  voice]  You  saw  him  plainly  ? 

MADONNA  GIULIA.  Even  to  the  little  scar  on 
his  right  cheek. 

GISMONDA.     How  did  he  look? 

MADONNA  GIULIA  [as  she  catches  sight  of  Ales- 
sandro; awed]  You  see  my  lord? 

GISMONDA  [after  a  glance]  But  Signor  Pietro ! 
[  48  ] 


TORCHES 

MADONNA  GIULIA  Both  of  them !  —  They  look 
like  dying  men! 

[Trumpets  sound.  Gismonda  hesitates  a  mo- 
ment, then  goes  to  the  parapet,  and  looks  over  it 
down  into  the  courtyard.  Suddenly  she  whirls, 
as  if  struck  through  from  behind,  stands  trans- 
fixed, and  stares  unseeing.  Nervously  and  with 
extreme  caution  she  peers  round  at  Alessandro 
who  stands  proudly  rigid  on  the  balcony.  Then 
she  comes  hurriedly  down  to  Madonna  Giulia.] 

GISMONDA.  This  fan !  To  Signor  Pietro ! 
Quick ! 

[Madonna  Giulia  takes  the  silver  fan  and  goes 
out.  Trumpets  sound.  Gismonda  has  half  crossed 
the  terrace  when  Alessandro  speaks.'] 

ALESSANDRO.  Come  stand  with  me  on  the  bal- 
cony where  he  can  see  you  as  he  rides  away  — 

GISMONDA.  What!  Leave  my  silks  for  him? 
As  if  I  came  by  such  splendor  every  day !  Come, 
my  lord !  Let  me  show  you  my  treasure ! 

ALESSANDRO.     I  will  stay  here. 

GISMONDA.  Am  I  fairer  in  this  silk  —  or  this? 
-  my  lord  ? 

ALESSANDRO.     Perhaps  he  will  look  up  - 

GISMONDA  [going  back  to  him}  See  how  I  have 
adorned  myself  that  you  may  take  pleasure  in  me ! 
Mark  this  cloak !  Mark  these  jewels  —  and  these 
—  and  these  —  ! 

ALESSANDRO  [harshly]  Do  not  trouble  me,  Gis- 
monda ! 

[  49  ] 


TORCHES 

GISMONDA  [her  arms  round  him]  Lord  Ales- 
sandro,  as  you  love  me  — 

ALESSANDRO.  There  goes  a  page  —  Yes,  he  is 
running  after  Pietro  —  !  [As  her  arms  tighten 
round  him,  flinging  her  off]  Let  be,  Gismonda! 

GISMONDA.  Look  not  at  him  but  at  me!  Look 
at  me ! 

ALKSSANDRO.     He  gives  Pietro  — 

GISMONDA  [pulling  at  him;  frenzied]  Come 
away ! 

ALKSSANDRO.  Something  —  something  that 
catches  the  light  - —  [A  pause.  His  figure  stiffens* 
She  peers  round  at  his  face,  and  tiptoes  down  the 
steps.  He  whirls  on  her]  Your*  fan? 

GISMONDA  [paralyzed]  My  lord!- 

ALESSANDRO.     Where  is  your  fan? 

GISMONDA  [snatching  up  the  feather  fan,  and 
waving  it  above  her  head]  My  sweet  lord,  here! 

ALESSANDRO.     Your  silver  fan ! 

GISMONDA  [stupidly]  Silver  fan? 

ALESSANDRO.  Can  you  not  hear?  Can  you  not 
understand  ?  Your  fan !  Your  silver  fan ! 

GISMONDA.  I  have  put  it  away !  It  is  in  my 
chamber !  [She  starts  rapidly  toward  the  door. 
He  intercepts  her.] 

ALESSANDRO.  You  lie !  It  is  not  in  your  cham- 
ber! It  is  in  his  hands!  [Almost  in  a  sob]  He 
rides  to  Germany  with  your  fan  against  his  heart ! 

[After  a  moment  his  face  hardens  with  purpose; 

he  crosses  to  the  door.,  and  shuts  and  locks  it.  She 

slowly  retreats.     He  turns,  and  on  the  instant 

she  is  still.    He  stands  with  his  back  to  the  door, 

[  50  ] 


TORCHES 

regarding  her  fixedly;  his  hand  plays  nervously 
with  his  dagger,  drawing  it  now  in,  now  half  out 
of  its  sheath.  He  advances  a  step  and  again  halts. 
There  is  a  pause.  Suddenly  she  bursts  out] 

GISMONDA.     My  lord ! 

ALESSANDRO.     Yes? 

GISMONDA.     That  dagger! 

ALESSANDRO  [resolved]  Yes ! 

GISMONDA  [in  a  great  cry]  No !  I  am  not  afraid. 
[There  is  another  pause.  He  advances  another 
pace.  Again  she  bursts  out]  My  lord,  let  me  tell 
you  everything ! 

ALESSANDRO  [implacably]  Nothing ! 

GISMONDA.  He  seduced  me!  .  .  .  He  gained 
a  power  over  me ! 

ALESSANDRO.     Lies ! 

GISMONDA.  You  said  tonight  you  would  pity 
me  if  I  were  to  love ! 

ALESSANDRO.     Love?      You! 

GISMONDA.  Never  before !  But  with  him  — 
There  I  loved!  [She  flings  herself  on  her  knees 
and  embraces  his  legs.]  For  Jesus'  sake,  have  pity ! 
As  you  have  ever  loved,  have  pity!  [She  breaks 
into  violent  sobbing,  and  bends  her  head  on  her 
arms.  He  stoops  over  her  with  a  kind  of  wonder, 
takes  her  by  the  shoulders,  and,  bends  her  back, 
so  that  he  can  see  her  face.  She  endeavors  to 
keep  it  hidden,  but  when  she  cannot  she  raises  it 
and  stares  at  him  with  hard,  defiant  eyes] 

ALESSANDRO  [bursts  out  laughing]  Your  eyes 
are  dry  as  jewels  !  Your  heart !  —  [savagely] 


TORCHES 

It  is  useless  !    You  made  a  bargain  !   You  broke  it ! 
Yrou  are  guilty ! 

[Despairing  and  broken  she  drags  herself  up 
from  her  knees.  After  a  moment  she  pulls  herself 
together  and  turns  on  him  with  scorn.'] 

GISMONDA.  In  Rome  it  is  well  done  to  cheat 
a  tradesman !  Was  your  father  a  pedlar  Jew 
that  you  cannot  even  play  the  honest  bargainer? 
That  ruby  — 

AI,ESSANDRO.     The  ruby  is  yours ! 

GISMONDA  [with  sarcasm]  To  dream  of? 

ALESSANDRO.  To  have  —  [A  glass  of  half 
drunk  wine  stands  on  the  table.  He  drops  the  ring 
in  the  cup  and  holds  it  out  to  her~\  in  a  cup ! 

GISMONDA  [slowly]  That  ring  is  poisoned ! 

ALESSANDRO.     Yes. 

GISMONDA.  To  drink  is  death !  —  [She  looks 
down  at  the  cup9  then  puts  out  her  hand  in  a 
little  gesture  of  supplication;  in  a  faint  voice] 
My  lord ! 

ALESSANDRO  [with  scorn]  So  this  is  how  a  Ro- 
man dies ! 

[She  looks  at  him  proudly,  takes  the  cup,  and 
drinks.  She  shudders  slightly,  smiles,  and  takes 
the  ring  from  the  cup,  slips  it  on  her  finger,  and 
holds  up  her  hand  to  admire  it.] 

GISMONDA.     Rome  would   envy   me  this   ruby ! 
Bury  it  with  me ;    I  would  have  it  burn  among  my 
dust  —  [A  short  pause;  in  a  low  voice;  smiling] 
[  52  ] 


TORCHES 

When  I  am  dust !  [She  sways.  The  wine  glass  falls 
from  her  hand  and  breaks]  Pardon,  Signor  con- 
noisseur !  It  was  a  thing  you  loved  —  Murano 
glass,  beautiful,  like  me,  and  easily  broken.  We 
shall  put  lip  to  lip  again,  that  cup  and  I,  in  — 
[she  laughs]  Dante's  Hell?  [She  sits  in  the  chair 
by  the  table.]  To  die  of  my  first  affair!  That's 
droll  enough !  In  Rome  they  will  say  you  might 
as  well  have  killed  me  for  wearing  my  hat  in  the 
fashion !  In  Rome  we  are  less  finicking !  I  was  a 
Roman.  .  .  .  [With  a  kind  of  pleased  surprise] 
That's  my  epitaph!  [Silence;  then  fretfully]  I  am 
cold!  [Alessandro  silently  brings  the  silks  and  vel- 
vets, and  lays  them  about  her  shoulders,  and  over 
her  knees  and  feet]  That  foolish  song  keeps  run- 
ning in  my  head  —  [Singing  feebly] 

"Love  is  enough! 

Plead  not!     More  is  not  mine  to  give — " 

That  makes  me  think  of  one  who  was  ready  to 
die  of  love  for  me  — 

ALESSANDRO  [harshly]  Be  still!  [A  pause] 
Black  nights  and  days  I  see  ahead  of  me,  but  one 
memory  to  stave  off  madness :  You  could  not  make 
a  traitor  of  Pietro!  [Tauntingly]  Was  that  your 
first  defeat  —  Roman? 

GISMONDA  [with  effort]  You  say  defeat?  .  .  . 
Fool !  no  defeat  ...  if  ...  signal  .  .  . 

ALESSANDRO    [puzzled]   Signal?   [A  pause] 

GISMONDA  [in  a  clear  voice]  Put  out  the 
torches ! 

ALESSANDRO.  A  signal?  [A  pause.  He  comes 
[  53  ] 


TORCHES 

close  to  her]  You,  Gismonda,  answer  me!  That 
is  a  signal? 

GISMONDA.  Only  .  .  .  my  vanity  .  .  .  more 
beautiful  ...  in  the  .  .  .  moon  .  .  . 

ALESSANDRO  [with  relief]  Ah !  [He  wets  a  cloth 
with  wine,  and  extinguishes  three  of  the  four 
torches.] 

GISMONDA.  So  that  you  .  .  .  eyes  open  .  .  . 
Pietro.  .  .  ... 

ALESSANDRO  [startled]  Pietro! 

GISMONDA  [with  a  faint  laugh]  You  and  he 
.  .  .  my  last  jest  .  .  . 

ALESSANDRO   [fiercely]   What  of  Pietro? 

GISMONDA.  You  give  .  .  .  him  .  .  .  [with 
effort;  in  a  whisper]  rendez-vous. 

[She  dies.] 

ALESSANDRO.  Rendez-vous !  To  give  Pietro 
rendez-vous !  [In  a  cry  of  utter  despair]  Oh, 
God!  Is  there  no  end? 

[He  goes  to  the  fourth  torch,  and  brings  his 
dagger  close  to  the  light  where  he  examines  the 
blade.  His  face  shows  set,  drawn,  savage.  He 
puts  out  this  torch.  He  crosses  the  terrace,  and 
stands  in  the  shadow  of  a  pillar,  his  dagger  ready. 
The  moonlight  brilliantly  floods  the  terrace,  spills 
over  the  still  figure  of  the  dead  woman,  and  picks 
out  points  of  flashing  iridescence  where  the  gems 
gleam  in  her  hair,  on  her  arms  and  hands.  For  a 
moment  there  is  silence.  Then  a  faint  scraping 
sound.  Next  the  word  "Gismonda !"  very  soft,  in 
the  voice  of  Pietro.  A  second  later,  and  Pietro 
climbs  up  over  the  parapet  of  the  little  balcony. 
[  54  ] 


TORCHES 

He  comes  down  the  steps,  hesitates,  and  then  as  he 
sees  Gismonda  in  the  chair  by  the  table,  he  laughs 
quietly,  and  comes  forward,  crying  softly,  but 
with  passionate  tenderness] 

PIETRO.     Gismonda ! 

As  he  moves  down  Alessandro  comes  from  be- 
hind the  pillar  and  follows  him,  his  dagger  raised 
as 

THE    CURTAIN    FALLS 


[  55 


COOKS    AND    CARDINALS 

COMEDY   IN    ONE    ACT 

BY 
NORMAN  C.  LINDAU 


CHARACTERS 

THE  GIRL  (KATHLEEN)       FATHER  ANSELM 
THE  YOUTH   (TEDDY)          LEVRATJT 
MRS.  CONNELLY  THE  CARDINAL 


Originally  produced  November  24,  1919  by  The  47  Work- 
shop. Copyright,  1919,  by  Norman  C.  Lindau. 

Permission  for  amateur  or  professional  performances  of 
any  kind  must  first  be  obtained  from  The  47  Workshop, 
Harvard  College,  Cambridge,  Mass.  Moving  Picture  rights 
reserved. 


COOKS    AND    CARDINALS 

A  well  appointed  and  beautifully  kept  kitchen; 
in  the  left  wall,  down-stage,  a  door;  another  door 
in  the  down-stage  face  of  a  protuberance  which 
fills  the  upper  left  corner  of  the  stage;  in  the  rear 
wall  two  windows;  between  the  doors  a  gas-stove, 
between  the  windows  a  table;  in  the  upper  right 
corner  a  large  dresser,  making  a  brave  display  of 
shining  pots  and  pans;  down-stage  from  the 
dresser,  against  the  right  wall,  the  sink;  still 
farther  down-stage,  well  out  from  the  wall,  a 
larger  table;  the  implements  of  cookery  are  to 
be  found  in  their  appropriate  places.  The  win- 
dows are  of  frosted  glass,  with  dotted  Swiss  half- 
curtains,  and  the  one  to  the  right  is  practicable. 
On  the  table  between  the  windows  are  two  gera- 
niums in  pots,  blooming  brightly;  there  is  also  a 
sedately  bound  book,  with  a  spectacle-case  mark- 
ing the  reader's  place.  A  kitchen  chair  stands  at 
either  end  of  the  table,  its  back  primly  escaping 
the  rear  wall  by  a  couple  of  inches;  in  front  of 
the  table  to  the  left,  is  a  commodious  rocking- 
chair,  first  cousin  to  the  straight  chairs,  but 
unlike  them  in  having  arms;  it  is  so  placed  that 
one  sitting  in  it  faces  the  larger  table.  Despite 
frosted  glass  and  curtains,  a  fine  Zo£  of  sunlight 
is  pouring  in  at  the  windows. 


COOKS    AND    CARDINALS 

At  the  table  right  an  eighteen-year-old  girl, 
large  of  shoe  and  red  of  forearm,  but  none  the  less 
bewitchingly  pretty  in  her  pink  gingham  dress 
and  big  checked  apron,  is  kneading  dough  in  a 
yellow  bowl,  softly  whistling  "Silver  Threads 
Amongst  the  Gold."  The  window  right  opens, 
framing  the  head  and  trunk  of  a  red-haired, 
twinkling-eyed  youth  of  twenty-one.  The  Girl 
gives  a  gasp  of  astonishment. 

THE  GIRL.     Teddy! 

THE  YOUTH  [grinning  zvith  enjoyment  of  her 
surprise']  You  bet!  [He  climbs  in  with  easy  agil- 
ity, folds  his  arms  across  his  chest,  and  stands 
near  the  window,  regarding  her  with  demure  tri- 
umph.] 

THE  GIRL  [taking  her  dough-covered  hands 
out  of  the  bowl,  and  holding  her  arms  stiffly  away 
from  her;  turning  her  back  to  the  table  at  which 
she  has  been  working,  and  facing  the  Youth,  she 
speaks  in  a  scandalized  whisper]  In  the  Cardinal's 
kitchen ! 

TEDDY.  That's  me !  [He  crosses  toward  her, 
but  she  wards  him  off  with  her  doughy  hands]  An' 
believe  me,  I've  got  — 

THE  GIRL  [glancing  apprehensively  at  the  door 
down-stage]  Ssssh!  [With  every  appearance  of 
apprehension  greater  than  hers,  Teddy  backs 
softly  and  rapidly  in  a  straight  line,  with  the 
result  that  he  crashes  into  the  rocking-chair] 
Sssh !  [She  lays  a  forefinger  across  her  lips,  and 
both  of  them  stand  in  perfect  silence  for  a  couple 
[  60  ] 


COOKS    AND    CARDINALS 

of  seconds,  looking  at  the  down-stage  door.  Then 
the  Girl  tiptoes  across  to  Teddy,  having  first  re- 
moved her  finger  from  her  lips,  disclosing  a  line 
of  white  across  their  red;  she  does  not  speak  until 
quite  close  to  him']  S'pose  Mrs.  Connelly  was  to 
catch  you  here ! 

TEDDY.  What's  the  matter?  Ain't  this  her 
afternoon  out? 

THE  GIRL.  She  didn't  go  today.  We've  got 
big  doin's  here,  you  know. 

TEDDY.  Oh.  I  read  in  the  paper.  An  Eye- 
talian  cardinal  visitin'  Cardinal  Wheeler ;  Man- 
ducky,  or  some  such  name. 

THE  GIRL.  Cardinal  Manducci.  —  You  bet- 
ter go,  Teddy !  Mrs.  Connelly  might  come  in  any 
minute!  She's  jest  gone  to  lay  down  for  a  while. 

TEDDY.  I  know  her  brand  of  "layin'  down." 
An  uncle  of  mine  used  to  "lay  down"  like  that, 
till  he  "layed  down"  with  delirium  tremens,  an' 
had  to  sign  the  pledge. 

THE  GIRL  [stifling  a  laugh]  Sssh!  If  she  was 
to  hear  you! 

TEDDY  [with  masculine  insistence  on  detail] 
Well,  ain't  it  so? 

THE  GIRL  [nodding]  It  makes  her  jest  awful! 

[Suddenly,  without  warning,  he  puts  his  arms 
about  her  waist,  and  kisses  her;  she  seems  by  no 
means  averse  to  the  kiss,  but  as  soon  as  it  is  an 
accomplished  fact  she  breaks  away  from  him,  and 
shakes  her  finger  at  him  reprovingly.] 

THE  GIRL.     Teddy  !    In  the  Cardinal's  kitchen  ! 

TEDDY  [impenitently]  Sure.    Why  not? 


COOKS    AND    CARDINALS 

THE  GIRL.     But,  Teddy! 

TEDDY.  You  look  that  sweet,  Kathy,  I  bet  th' 
old  Cardinal  would  kiss  you  himself,  if  he  could 
see  you. 

KATHLEEN  [genuinely  pained]  You  mustn't 
talk  like  that  about  his  Eminence. 

TEDDY  [apologetically]  I  didn't  mean  no  harm, 
Kathy.  ...  I  fergot  about  your  bein'  a  Cath'lic. 
'Scuse  me. 

KATHLEEN  [wide-eyed]  Don't  you  —  don't 
you  b'long  to  the  Church? 

TEDDY  [ignorant  of  impending  disaster]  M«? 
No.  I  was  raised  a  Methodist,  but  I  ain't  much 
of  anything  now. 

KATHLEEN  [with  real  tragedy  in  her  voice]  But 
you  never  told  me  that  you  didn't  b'long  to  the 
Church ! 

TEDDY  [wit h  the  impatience  of  the  ignorant] 
What's  the  diff?  Can't  you  love  a  Methodist  as 
good  as  a  Cath'lic? 

KATHLEEN  [hurt;  reproaching  him  for  his  man- 
ner] Teddy!  [Then  returning  to  the  burning 
issue]  It  ain't  that  I  can't  love  you  jest  as  good. 
— But  I  can't  marry  you. 

TED  [in  his  turn  wide-eyed]  Can't  marry  me! 
Kathleen! 

KATHLEEN  [he  has  raised  his  voice]  Sssssh ! 

TED  [lowering  his  voice]  But  why  can't  you 
marry  me? 

KATHLEEN.  Because  you  don't  b'long  to  the 
Church.  Cath'lics  can't  marry  nobody,  only 
Cath'lics. 

[  62  ] 


COOKS    AND    CARDINALS 

TED  [with  a  sigh  of  relief]  I'll  be  a  Cath'lic, 
then.  I  jest  as  lief  as  not,  anyway. 

KATHLEEN  [shaking  her  head]  Oh  no,  Teddy.  I 
couldn't  marry  nobody  who  made  out  he  believed 
somethin'  he  didnt  believe,  jest  so's  he  could  do 
what  he  wanted  to. 

TED.  Well,  I  could  try  to  believe  like  you  do, 
couldn't  I? 

KATHLEEN.  It's  no  use,  Teddy.  I  wouldn't 
have  it.  So  don't  let's  talk  about  it. 

TED  [with  passion]  But  you  can't  throw  me 
down  like  this,  Kathy  !  Don't  you  know  how  much 
I  love  you!  [Kathleen  looks  at  the  floor]  I  —  I'm 
jest  crazy  about  you! 

KATHLEEN  [brokenly]  I'm  sorry,  Teddy. 

TED.  Sorry !  Don't  talk  to  me  about  bein' 
sorry!  I  know  how  sorry  you  must  be,  throwin' 
me  down  without  any  reason ! 

KATHLEEN  [without  looking  up]  Ssssh!  Mrs. 
Connelly. 

TED  [lowering  his  voice]  Damn  Mrs.  Connelly ! 
—  Listen,  Kathy.  You  know  why  I  come  here 
this  afternoon? 

KATHLEEN  [with  tearful  coquetry]  To  see  me, 
I  guess. 

TED.  To  tell  you  that  I  got  that  raise  I  been 
lookin'  for,  an'  ask  you  how  soon  you  can  marry 
me.  I  got  the  afternoon  off  a-purpose.  An' a  fine 
afternoon  it's  turnin'  out  to  be! 

KATHLEEN.     Don't  think  it  ain't  as  bad  for  me 
as  it  is  for  you,  Teddy,  because  it  is.     I'd  give 
anything  in  the  world  if  I  could  say  yes. 
[  63  ] 


COOKS    AND    CARDINALS 

TED  [persuasively]  Say  it,  then,  Sweetie. 
Don't  lets  you  an'  me  scrap  about  somethin'  we 
can't  neither  of  us  help. 

KATHLEEN.  I  cant.  It  would  only  be  leadin' 
you  on.  [Fiercely]  Oh,  I  wisht  I  was  rich!  Then 
we  could  get  a  dispensation. 

TED.     What's  that? 

KATHLEEN.  A  paper  the  Pope  gives  you, 
sayin'  you  can  do  somethin'  it  wouldn't  be  right 
to  do  if  you  didn't  have  it. 

TED.  I  got  five  hundred  dollars  in  the  bank; 
would  that  be  enough,  do  you  guess? 

KATHLEEN.  I  don't  know.  —  Even  if  it  would, 
though,  you  got  to  have  somebody  write  to  his 
Holiness,  an'  tell  him  that  you  got  a  good  reason 
for  a  dispensation.  They're  awful  hard  to  get. 

TED.  Wouldn't  Cardinal  Wheeler  write  to 
him  for  you? 

KATHLEEN.  His  Eminence?  Lord,  Teddy,  I 
wouldn't  dare  to  ask  him !  Even  if  I  ever  got  to 
speak  to  him,  which  I  don't. 

TED.  Well,  you  got  to  ask  him,  Kathy!  It 
looks  like  our  only  chance.  An'  I  bet  he  won't 
say  no ;  not  if  you  make  him  see  how  important 
it  is.  An'  another  thing,  if  you  tell  him  — 

[Footsteps  are  heard  outside  the  door  down- 
stage] 

KATHLEEN.     Mrs.  Connelly! 

TED  [as  he  closely  approximates  the  world's 
record  for  getting  out  of  a  window]  See  you  to- 
night. 

[  64  ] 


COOKS   AND    CARDINALS 

KATHLEEN  [following  him  as  far  as  the  window; 
drearily]  Maybe. 

[Ted  is  gone,  and  Kathleen  stands  gazing  out 
of  the  window  when  the  door  down-stage  opens, 
and  there  enters  a  large,  middle-aged  woman  of 
severe  mien  and  portly  build;  she  is  clad  in  rusty 
black,  with  a  blue  and  white  check  apron  of  im- 
posing size  but  doubtful  cleanliness.  Her  voice 
is  mellow,  and  tends  to  be  thick;  her  gait  and  ges- 
tures are  under  perfect  control,  but  an  occasional 
hiccough  betrays  her  state  of  mild  intoxication.] 

MRS.  CONNELLY.  Might  I  make  so  bold  as  to 
in  — r-  inquire,  Miss,  the  meanin'  of  open  winders 
in  this  —  kitchen? 

KATHLEEN  [with  tears  in  her  voice]  I  was  jest 
lookin'  out. 

MRS.  CONNELLY.  Oh.  Lookin'  out,  was  you? 
Gettin'  a  breath  of  air,  so  to  speak,  an'  at  the 
same  time  inter  —  ruptin'  the  monotony  of  hon- 
est toil,  which  is  God's  greatest  gift  to  us  mis'  — 
rable  sinners. 

KATHLEEN.  Yes  ma'am.  [She  turns  away  from 
the  window. 1 

MRS.  CONNEI/LY.  For  sinners  we  are,  Kath- 
leen;  mis'rable  sinners.  One  day  we  flourish  as 
the  flowers  of  the  field,  an'  the  next  day,  lo,  our 
places  know  us  no  more.  [Piously]  Of  such  is  the 
—  kingdom  of  Heaven.  [She  crosses  to  the  rock- 
ing-chair, and  sits  down.] 

KATHLEEN.  Should  I  leave  the  winder  open, 
Mrs.  Connelly? 

[65  ] 


COOKS    AND    CARDINALS 

MRS.  CONNELLY.  Certainly  not.  I'll  have  no 
men  starin'  into  this  kitchen.  [Kathleen  attempts 
to  close  the  window;  it  sticks  a  little,  and  she 
gives  a  tug  which  brings  it  down  with  a  bang, 
causing  Mrs.  Connelly  to  start  violently]  An' 
don't  lose  your  temper,  Kathleen !  It's  a  trick 
as  I  can't  stand  in  a  young  girl. 

KATHLEEN.     The  winder  stuck. 

MRS.  CONNELLY.  Oh  no,  Kathleen.  Don't  seek 
to  blame  your  own  short  —  comin's  on  a  pore, 
in  —  inanimate  objeck  like  a  winder.  When  we 
do  wrong,  let  us  —  let  us  confess,  that  we  may  be 
forgiven. 

[Making  no  answer,  Kathleen  returns  to  the 
business  of  kneading.  Mrs.  Connelly,  having  be- 
stowed a  withering  glance  upon  Kathleen's  back, 
picks  up  the  book,  puts  on  her  spectacles,  and 
reads.  There  is  a  gentle  tap  at  the  door  up-stage, 
and  Mrs.  Connelly  turns  a  frowning  gaze  in  that 
direction.] 

MRS.  CONNELLY.     Well? 

[A  beautiful  masculine  voice,  off-stage]. 

FATHER  ANSELM.  It  is  I,  Mrs.  Connelly ; 
Father  Anselm. 

MRS.  CONNELLY  [inimically]  Well? 

FATHER  ANSELM  [off-stage]  I  must  speak  with 
you,  Mrs.  Connelly. 

MRS.  CONNELLY.  "Must!"  "Must"  is  it?  In 
me  own  kitchen ! 

FATHER  ANSELM  [off-stage]  May  I  come  in? 

MRS.  CONNELLY.  Oh  yes,  come  in  if  you 
"must."  [Father  Anselm  enters;  he  is  thirty,  and 
[66  ] 


COOKS    AND    CARDINALS 

angelic -looking.     He  stands  just  within  the  door- 
way.] 

FATHER  ANSELM.  I  know  that  you  dislike  hav- 
ing men  in  your  kitchen,  Mrs.  Connelly.  But  I 
am  come  on  a  most  important  mission  from  his 
Eminence. 

MRS.  CONNELLY.     Go  on. 

FATHER  ANSELM.  Cardinal  Manducci,  you 
know,  has  arrived. 

MRS.  CONNELLY  [bitingly  sarcastic]  An'  I  sup- 
pose his  Eminence  wants  me  to  come  up  an'  meet 
him. 

FATHER  ANSELM  [with  unhesitant  diplomacy] 
His  Eminence  intends  taking  Cardinal  Manducci 
through  the  house  tomorrow,  and  then  you  will 
have  the  opportunity. 

MRS.  CONNELLY  [grudgingly]  Well,  I  suppose 
if  them  two  Cardinals  have  nothin'  better  to  do 
than  come  messin'  around  the  kitchen,  they'll  have 
to  come  in. 

FATHER  ANSELM.     Ah  —  yes. 

MRS.  CONNELLY  [with  condescending  gracious- 
ness]  You  can  —  tell  his  Eminence,  Father  An- 
selm,  that  if  he  likes  to  bring  the  Eyetalian  Car- 
dinal in  here  tomorrow,  about  four  o'clock  in  the 
afternoon,  I  have  nothin'  to  say  against  it. 

FATHER  ANSELM.  Very  well,  Mrs.  Connelly. 
[There  is  a  brief  pause,  then  Mrs.  Connelly  re- 
sumes her  reading,  signifying  thereby  that  the  in- 
terview is  at  an  end.] 

FATHER   ANSELM    [trying   to   speak   casually] 
Ah  —  Mrs.  Connelly ;  one  thing  more. 
[  67  ] 


COOKS   AND    CARDINALS 

MRS.  CONNELLY  [looking  up  with  an  air  of  mar- 
tyred patience]  Well? 

FATHER    ANSELM.     Cardinal    Manducci,    you 
know,  is  an  Italian ;  he  is  accustomed  to  —  ah  - 
certain  dishes  which  we  in  this  country  have  not 
the  art  of  preparing.     Spaghetti,  for  instance. 

MRS.  CONNELLY.  Very  well.  I'll  —  cook  him 
some  tomorrow.  —  Kathleen,  go  an'  see  if  we've 
got  any  spaghetti  in  the  house. 

KATHLEEN.  Yes  ma'am.  [She  goes  out,  down- 
stage] 

FATHER  ANSELM  [the  victim  of  inspiration] 
Mrs.  Connelly,  you  know  how  fond  his  Eminence 
is  of  your  biscuits. 

MRS.  CONNELLY  [with  a  sweeping  gesture,  indi- 
cating the  bowl  on  the  table  down-stage]  There'll 
be  some  for  dinner. 

FATHER  ANSELM.  Yes.  —  Now  suppose  his 
Eminence  had  to  make  a  long  journey,  into  for- 
eign countries.  Don't  you  think  it  likely  that  he 
would  want  to  take  you  along,  so  that  you  could 
make  biscuits  for  him  when  he  got  to  places  where 
there  was  no  one  who  knew  how  to  make  them? 

MRS.  CONNELLY.  I  wouldn't  be  surprised.  Not 
a-tall.  His  Eminence  is  only  a  man,  after  all,  an' 
they're  all  finicky  about  eatin'. 

FATHER  ANSELM  [eagerly]  You  see  how  likely 
it  would  be? 

MRS.  CONNELLY  [heroically]  Well,  I'm  not  one 
to  travel  much,  but  I'll  go.  You  can  tell  his  Emi- 
nence I'll  go. 

FATHER  ANSELM   [hastily]  I  was  only  stating 
[  68  .1 


COOKS    AND    CARDINALS 

a  hypothetical  case,  Mrs.  Connelly.  His  Eminence 
isn't  really  going,  you  know. 

MRS.  CONNELLY  In  —  suited !  [with  a  burst  of 
maudlin  tears]  Insulted  in  me  own  kitchen!  By 
a  striplin'  of  a  priest  young  —  enough  to  be  me 
own  son!  [Dashing  her  book  upon  the  floor.] 

FATHER  ANSELM.  Really  now,  Mrs\  Connelly ; 
really  now,  you  mustn't.  [Picking  up  the  book, 
and  handing  it  to  her]  There.  I  —  ah  —  I  have 
the  highest  respect  for  you,  and  I  shouldn't  dream 
of  wounding  your  feelings  intentionally.  Indeed 
not. 

MRS.  CONNELLY  ['very  much  on  her  dignity] 
Then  perhaps  you'll  ex  —  explain  the  meanin'  of 
this  most  unseemly  conduct. 

FATHER  ANSELM  [suddenly  haughty]  You  take 
a  liberty,  Mrs.  Connelly,  in  mimicking  his  Emi- 
nence. An  unwarrantable  liberty.  I  cannot  per- 
mit it  to  pass  uncensured. 

MRS.  CONNELLY.  Ho!  Indeed?  Indeed, 
Father  Anselm !  —  I'll  ask  you  to  kindly  get  out 
of  me  kitchen  !  The  quicker  the  better  ! 

FATHER  ANSELM  [backing  into  the  doorway] 
Not  until  I  have  delivered  his  Eminence's  message. 
Monsignor  Manducci  is  accompanied  by  his  chef, 
M.  Levraut,  who  will  prepare  spaghetti  and  some 
other  dishes  for  him.  [Mrs.  Connelly  looks  be- 
wildered] You  are  to  place  the  resources  of  the 
kitchen  at  M.  Levraut's  disposal,  and  show  him 
every  courtesy.  He  does  not  speak  English,  but 
he  will  doubtless  be  able  to  find  everything  he 
needs.  [Speaking  over  his  shoulder,  with  an  accent 
[  69  ] 


COOKS   AND    CARDINALS 

which  is  the  modern  equivalent  of  that  of  Strat- 
ford-atte-Bowe]  Entrez,  s'il  vous  plait,  M.  Lev- 
raut.  [There  enters  a  short,  stout,  middle-aged 
man,  ruddy,  smooth-shaven,  and  dapper;  he  is  fop- 
pishly dressed,  with  cutaway  coat  and  spats;  in 
one  hand  he  carries  a  silk  hat,  in  the  other  a  suit- 
case] Vous  voyez  ici  Mme.  Connelly,  cuisiniere  a 
Monsignor  Wheeler,  qui  mettra  a  votre  disposition 
sa  cuisine,  et  qui  vous  rendra  toute  aide  possible. 

LEVRAUT.  Merci,  mon  Pere.  [Advancing  into 
the  room,  and  bowing  to  Mrs.  Connelly]  Enchante, 
Madame.  Vous  etes  trop  obligeante. 

MRS.  CONNELLY  [weakly]  What's  the  creature 
sayin',  Father  Anselm? 

FATHER  ANSELM.  M.  Levraut  says  that  he  is 
delighted  to  make  your  acquaintance.  —  Mme. 
Connelly  ne  parle  pas  Fran9ais,  monsieur. 

LEVRAUT.  Vraiment !  Mais  que-voulez-vous  ? 
Regardez-la,  done !  Elle  a  Pair  bete  comme  une 
ane,  n'est-ce  pas?  Bete  a  faire  peur! 

FATHER  ANSELM.  Ah  —  Oui;  oui.  [Then, 
in  response  to  the  inquiring  look  on  Mrs.  Con- 
nelly's face]  M.  Levraut  says  that  he  is  sure  you 
and  he  wiH  get  along  beautifully?  and  that  he  will 
try  to  give  you  as  little  trouble  as  possible. 

MRS.  CONNELLY.  Trouble  indeed !  The  grin- 
nin'  little  ape !  Don't  think  for  a  minute  he'll  do 
any  cookin'  in  this  kitchen !  It's  no  place  for  a 
man,  a  kitchen  ain't,  let  alone  a  prancin'  little 
monkey  like  him! 

LEVRAUT.  Qu'est-ce  que  c'est  qu'elle  dit,  mon- 
sieur mon  Pere? 

[  70  ] 


COOKS    AND    CARDINALS 

FATHER  ANSELM.  Rien  ;  rien  du  tout !  —  Now, 
Mrs.  Connelly,  you  really  must  be  reasonable. 
His  Eminence  will  be  dreadfully  displeased  if 
Cardinal  Manducci's  chef  meets  with  discourteous 
treatment  at  your  hands  ;  dreadfully  displeased! 

MRS.  CONNELLY  [stubbornly]  Well  does  his 
Eminence  know  that  I  have  no  manner  of  use  for 
a  man  in  me  kitchen ;  'tis  an'  insult  to  expect  me 
to  —  tolerate  the  like  of  it ! 

.  LEVRAUT.  Je  n'aime  pas  la  mine  de  cette 
femme,  mon  Pere  !  Elle  parait  dangereuse !  Nom 
d'un  cochon,  elle  parait  dangereuse ! 

FATHER  ANSELM.  Mais  non ;  pas  du  tout,  je 
vous  assure!  —  You  must  put  aside  your  preju- 
dices, Mrs.  Connelly.  M.  Levraut  will  interfere 
with  you  as  little  as  he  possibly  can,  I  know.  He 
only  wants  to  cook  a  few  things  for  Monsignor 
Manducci,  and  then  he  will  clear  out,  and  leave 
you  in  undisturbed  possession.  —  Veuillez  faire 
vos  preparations,  M.  Levraut,  si'l  vous  plait, 
avant  que  je  parte. 

LEVRAUT.  Comment?  Vous  partirez,  mon 
Pere?  Vous  me  laisserez? 

MRS.  CONNELLY.  What's  the  matter  with  the 
little  monkey?  Is  he  goin'  to  cry? 

LEVRAUT  [drawing  closer  to  Father  An- 
selm,  and  speaking  earnestly]  Ah,  monsieur  mon 
Pere,  ne  m'abandonnez  pas  a  cette  femme,  je  vous 
en  prie!  Elle  m'a  pris  une  aversion,  une  grande 
aversion  !  Je  le  sens,  moi ! 

FATHER  ANSELM  [reassuringly]  Mais  non ! 
Vous  avez  tort,  M.  Levraut.  Soyez  tranquille. 

[  Tl   ] 


COOKS    AND    CARDINALS 

Peut-etre  que  Madame  Connelly  parait  formidable, 
mais  en  verite  elle  est  une  femme  le  plus  aimable 
du  monde. 

LEVRAUT  [dubiously,  after  a  glance  at  Mrs. 
Connelly]  Vraiment? 

FATHER  ANSELM.     Bien  sur ! 

LEVRAUT  [heroically]  Tres  bien !  Allons  done ! 
[He  marches  straight  to  the  table  near  which 
Mrs.  Connelly  is  sitting,  and  places  his  suitcase 
upon  it;  his  glossy  hat  he  places  upon  the  chair 
to  the  left  of  the  table;  Mrs.  Connelly  twists  her 
head  around  to  watch  him;  he  takes  off  his  coat, 
and  hangs  it  with  loving  care  upon  the  back  of 
the  chair.] 

MRS.  CONNELLY.  Does  he  —  does  he  take  this 
for  a  dressin'-room? 

LEVRAUT  .[removing  his  waistcoat,  a  Parisian 
creation  of  gaudy  hues]  Avec  votre  permission, 
Madame.  II  fait  chaud  aujourd'hui. 

MRS.  CONNELLY.  Is  it  his  —  Eminence's  in  — 
instructions  that  this  Eyetalian  renegade  is  to  be 
allowed  to  undress  in  this  kitchen,  Father  An- 
selm  ? 

[Levraut  folds  the  waistcoat,  and  lays  it  across 
the  back  of  the  chair.  Then  he  bends  over  the 
suitcase,  fussing  with  the  straps  and  catch] 

FATHER  ANSELM.  Don't  be  alarmed,  Mrs.  Con- 
nelly ;  I  dare  say  the  man  is  only  getting  ready  to 
go  to  work.  He  probably  wears  a  white  jacket, 
you  know,  or  something  of  the  sort. 

LEVRAUT  [finding  the  catch  recalcitrant]  Sacre 
mille  cochons !     Quel  mauvais  anneau  !     Pouah ! 
[  72  ] 


COOKS    AND    CARDINALS 

MRS.  CONNELLY  [turning  her  back  upon  Lev- 
raid]  Then  all  I  can  —  say  is,  the  sooner  he  puts 
it  on,  the  better.  Not  in  fifteen  years  have  I  been 
af  —  fronted  with  the  sight  of  a  man  in  his 
shirt.  —  An'  in  me  own  kitchen,  at  that ! 

LEVRAUT  [getting  the  suitcase  opened  at  last] 
Ah !  Bon !  [  He  takes  out  of  it  a  white  jacket  and 
cap;  the  cap  he  puts  on;  the  jacket  he  lays  care- 
lessly on  the  table;  he  tries  to  remove  the  detach- 
able cuffs  which  adorn  his  wrists,  but  finds  them 
too  stiffly  starched.'] 

MRS.  CONNELLY.  Mark  my  words,  Father  An- 
selm,  his  Eminence  shall  hear  of  this  —  out- 
rageous conduck !  An'  him  knowin'  I  can't  abide 
a  man  in  me  kitchen ! 

FATHER  ANSELM.  I'm  sorry,  Mrs.  Connelly, 
but  it  can't  be  helped;  Monsignor  Manducci  is  a 
highly  honored  guest,  you  know,  and  we  must  do 
all  in  our  power  to  make  his  visit  agreeable. 

[Mrs.  Connelly  makes  that  sound,  indicative  of 
sarcastic  contempt,  generally  described  as  "snif- 
fing" though  it  is  really  an  exhalation  of  the 
breath,  vocalized.] 

LEVRAUT.  Cette  maudite  manchette!  Le  di- 
able  1'emporte!  [Suddenly  coming  around  to 
confront  Mrs.  Connelly,  and  thrusting  his  arm 
in  front  of  her]  Ayez  la  bonte  de  delier  ces  man- 
chettes-ci,  s'il  vous  plait,  Madame.  Je  ne  le  puis 
f  aire,  moi ! 

MRS.  CONNELLY  [sternly,  waving  him  away]  Git 
away,  you  miserable  Eyetalian  monkey !  Shovin' 
[  73  ] 


COOKS    AND    CARDINALS 

your  dirty  paws  under  the  nose  of  a  respectable 
widow-lady!  You  an'  your  boudoir-cap!  (lit 
away,  I  tell  ya! 

LEVRAUT  [turning  away  from  her  in  disgust] 
Tiens!  Je  1'ai  oublie!  Tu  ne  paries  pas  fran- 
cais,  vieille  vache  que  tu  es !  [He  begins  fussing  at 
his  cuff  again.] 

FATHER  ANSELM  [coming  forward]  Est-ce  que 
je  peux  vous  aider? 

LEVRAUT  [hastening  to  meet  him}  Ah,  mon 
Pere,  vous  etes  trop  gracieux !  [Father  Anselm 
proceeds  to  unfasten  and  remove  the  cuffs;  the 
chef  has  his  back  to  the  door  down-stage.] 

MRS.  CONNELLY  [looking  on  disdainfully]  Oh, 
that's  what  he  was  after,  is  it?  A  nice  cook  he 
mus'  be,  an'  can't  even  undo  his  own  cuffs !  Unless 
maybe  he's  been  drinkin'!  Which  if  I  thought  it, 
he  shouldn't  stay  in  this  kitchen  a  single  minute! 

KATHLEEN  [entering r,  carrying  a  boa:  of  spa- 
ghetti] Here's  all  I  could  find,  Mrs.  Connelly.  It 
was  on  the  top  shelf,  hid  away  behind  some  boxes. 

LEVRAUT  [twisting  his  head  around  to  look  at 
the  new  arrival]  Ha !  Nom  d'une  chatte !  Une 
jolie  jeune  fille!  Qui  est-elle,  M.  mon  Pere? 

FATHER  ANSELM  [frigidly]  L'assistante  de  la 
cuisiniere. 

LEVRAUT.  Vraiment?  —  Mais  elle  est  bien 
jolie,  toutefois. 

MRS.  CONNELLY.     Go  back  for  a  minute,  Kath- 
leen.    It's  not  proper  for  a  young  girl  like  you 
to   watch   this   Eyetalian   monkey   takin'   off   his 
clothes.      I'll  call  you  when  he's  finisht. 
[  74  ] 


COOKS    AND    CARDINALS 

KATHLEEN  [summoning  her  courage]  Please, 
Mrs.  Connelly,  jest  a  minute.  I  want  to  ask  his 
Reverence  about  somethin'. 

FATHER  ANSELM  [horribly  busy  with  the  cuffs] 
Not  just  now!  I've  —  ah  —  no  time. 

KATHLEEN  [imploringly]  Please,  your  Rever- 
ence. It's  about  a  dispensation.  . .. 

FATHER  ANSELM.  Good  gracious!  Can't  you 
see  that  I'm  busy  ?  Some  other  time ! 

MRS.  CONNELLY.  Did  you  hear  what  I  said, 
Kathleen?  Git  out  o'  here  this  minute!  [As  Kath- 
leen departs  with  lagging  steps]  Dispensation  in- 
deed! 

KATHLEEN  [still  continuing  toward  the  down- 
stage door,  but  speaking  with  considerable  spirit, 
despite  a  teary  voice]  I  guess  there's  nothin'  to 
be  ashamed  of  in  wantin'  a  dispensation. 

MRS.  CONNELLY.  Don't  you  talk  back  to  me, 
you  minx!  [Kathleen  goes  out,  leaving  the  door 
ajar;  Mrs.  Connelly  speaks  loftily  to  the  circum- 
ambient air]  The  idear  of  a  young  girl  like  her 
wanting  a  dispensation !  Why,  at  her  age,  I  was 
as  —  innocent  as  a  lamb.  The  world  gits  wick- 
eder and  wickeder  every  year,  I  do  believe.  It's 
pos  —  itively  un  —  unspeakable. 

LEVRAUT  [who  has  turned  back  to  face  Father 
Anselm]  Pourquoi  la  petite  part-elle? 

FATHER  ANSELM.  Jc  ne  sais  pas.  [Handing 
him  the  cuffs]  Voila. 

LEVRAUT.  Mille  remerciments,  mon  Pere.  [He 
goes  to  the  table  up-stage,  places  his  cuffs  on  the 
chair  beside  his  hat,  and  rolls  up  his  shirt-sleeves.] 
[  75  ] 


COOKS    AND    CARDINALS 

FATHER  ANSELM.  II  n'y  a  pas  de  quoi.  —  I 
am  going  now,  Mrs.  Connelly.  See  that  this 
man  has  everything  he  needs,  if  you  please,  and 
try  to  make  him  feel  at  home.  [Mrs.  Connelly 
"sniffs"  as  before]  —  Je  m'en  vais  maintenant, 
M.  Levraut.  Vous  trouverez  ici  tout  ce  qu'il  vous 
faudra,  je  crois. 

LEVRAUT.  J'en  suis  bien  sur,  mon  Pere.  [Bow- 
ing] Grand'merci  pour  toutes  vos  bontes. 

FATHER  ANSELM  [going]  Oh,  pas  de  quoi,  pas 
de  quoi,  mon  ami.  —  Remember,  Mrs.  Connelly. 
[Mrs.  Connelly  emits  a  grunt  which  might  be  con- 
strued to  mean  almost  anything,  provided  it  were 
not  anything  in  the  nature  of  a  guarantee  of  obe- 
dience] —  Au  revoir,  M.  Levraut. 

LEVRAUT  [as  Father  Anselm  goes  out]  Au  'voir, 
mon  Pere.  [He  puts  on  and  buttons  the  white 
jacket.] 

MRS.  CONNELLY.  All  right,  Kathleen.  [Kath- 
leen enters,  and  crosses  to  Mrs.  Connelly,  tender- 
ing her  the  box  of  spaghetti]  Don't  give  it  to  me! 
The  likes  of  Bridget  Connelly  isn't  good  enough  to 
cook  dinner  for  this  here  Cardinal  Manducci ! 
[With  scornful  laughter]  Oh  no!  My  Lord  Car- 
dinal Manducci  couldn't  possibly  eat  the  same  — 
food  as  his  Eminence !  It  might  poison  him !  He 
has  to  have  his  own  tchef ,  if  you  please,  to  fix  his 
Eyetalian  ea  tin's!  [As  Kathleen  stands  before 
her,  hesitant  as  to  what  disposal  to  make  of  the 
spaghetti]  Don't  stand  there  like  a  fool,  girl! 
Give  it  to  his  majesty  in  the  boudoir  cap ! 

KATHLEEN  [too  preoccupied  with  her  own 
[  76  ] 


COOKS    AND    CARDINALS 

troubles  to  be  interested  in  the  anomaly  of  a  man 
in  Mrs.  Connelly's  domain;  going  to  Levraut,  who 
is  getting  various  saucepans,  condiment-bottles , 
and  paper-wrapped  packages  out  of  the  suitcase, 
and  offering  him  the  box]  Here. 

LEVRAUT  [taking  the  box,  and  examining  it] 
Qu'y  a-t-il,  ma  petite? 

KATHLEEN  [staring]  Here.     Spaghetti. 

LEVRAUT  [turning  to  face  her]  Ah!  Spa- 
ghetti !  Oui,  oui,  oui ;  mais  certainement !  C'est 
tres  gentil  a  toi,  ma  cherie.  [Handing  the 
box  back  to  her]  Mais  je  n'en  ai  pas  besoin.  Nous 
en  apportons  le  vrai  italien.  [Picking  up  one  of 
his  packages,  and  tearing  the  paper,  so  that  she 
can  see  the  contents]  Ca!  Le  voila. 

KATHLEEN.     He's  got  some,  Mrs.  Connelly. 

MRS.  CONNELLY  [bitterly]  Ours  ain't  good 
enough  for  his  beautiful  Eyetalian  cardinal,  I 
suppose !  But  what  can  ya  expect !  Comin'  here 
with  his  own  private  tchef ,  an'  him  dressed  up  like 
he  was  going  to  a  fancy-dress  ball!  [With  great 
hauteur]  It's  hardly  to  be  expected  as  such  an 
elegant  gentleman  would  eat  common  American 
spaghetti !  —  Well,  put  it  back,  Kathleen ;  put 
it  back.  An'  then  git  on  with  the  biscuit-dough. 

[Kathleen  goes  out.  Mrs.  Connelly  pretends 
to  read,  while  keeping  a  hostile  eye  on  Levraut. 
Levraut  carries  several  of  the  packages,  sauce- 
pans, and  condiment-bottles  to  the  table  down- 
stage, humming  "Madelon"  cheerfully  the  while; 
finding  himself  cramped  for  room,  he  lifts  the  yel- 

[  77  ] 


COOKS    AND    CARDINALS 

low  bowl  carefully,  and  sets  it  at  the  up-stage  end 
of  the  table;  then  he  goes  to  the  sink  to  fill  a 
saucepan  with  water;  Mrs.  Connelly  gets  up, 
leaving  her  book  on  the  table  between  the  windows; 
with  heavy  tread  she  goes  to  the  other  table,  picks 
up  the  bowl,  and  plants  it  firmly  where  it  was  be- 
fore, in  the  middle  of  the  table,  sweeping  Levraut's 
culinary  paraphernalia  ruthlessly  aside;  he  turns 
in  time  to  see  what  is  going  on,  expands  his  chest, 
and  scowls  angrily,  muttering]  Sacre  mille  co 
chons !  Tu  feras  comme  9a,  hein?  Vieille  vache! 
Nous  verrons  !  [Mrs.  Connelly,  stern  determination 
written  in  every  line  of  her  face,  takes  several 
steps  back  from  the  table,  and  watches  to  see  what 
the  enemy  will  do;  he  proves  himself  worthy  of 
her  metal,  going  straight  to  the  table  (the  sauce- 
pan of  water  he  leaves  standing  in  the  sink)  lift- 
ing the  bowl,  and  setting  it  down  on  the  up-stage 
end  of  the  table  with  a  crash  which  would  be  fatal 
to  any  but  the  stoutest  crockery;  then  he  places 
both  hands  on  the  edge  of  the  table  (he  is  standing 
to  the  right  of  it,  his  back  toward  the  wall),  and 
thrusts  his  head  forward  provokingly,  as  if  to 
dare  his  antagonist  to  do  something  about  it! 
With  blazing  eyes,  Mrs.  Connelly  goes  to  the  table, 
and  would  lift  the  bowl,  to  replace  it,  but  Levraut 
also  lays  hands  on  it,  holding  it  firmly  on  the 
table.'] 

MRS.   CONNELLY.     Leave  go   o'   this   bowl,   ya 
dressed-up  monkey ! 

LEVRAUT.      Sapristi !   Je  t'apprendrai  de  la  po- 
litesse,  souillon  que  tu  es ! 

[   78  ] 


COOKS    AND    CARDINALS 

MRS.  CONNELLY.     You  better  leave  go ! 

LEVRAUT.     Va-t-en ! 

•MRS.  CONNELLY.  We'll  see!  [Letting  go  the 
bowl,  she  leans  across  the  table  and  slaps  Levraut 
on  the  cheek  with  the  palm  of  her  hand}  There ! 

LEVRAUT  [clapping  a  hand  to  the  injured  cheek, 
and  crying  out  with  pain}  Ah  !  Sacree  putain !  Tu 
me  frapperas  la  jumelle,  hein !  Bien !  J'irai  tout 
de  suite  a  Mgr.  Manducci !  [He  crosses  to  the 
door  up-stage}  Tu  me  payeras  cet  outrage !  At- 
tends done !  [He  goes  out,  not  closing  the  door 
behind  him,  and  his  voice  is  heard  off-stage,  grow- 
ing fainter  and  fainter}  Nom  de  Dieu!  £a  lui 
coutera  sa  place !  Maudite  megere !  Nous  ver- 
rons !  Sacre  mille  cochons !  Un  beau  menage, 
celui-la !  Mais  nous  verrons ! 

MRS.  CONNELLY  [as  his  voice  dies  away  in  the 
distance}  An'  ya  needn't  come  back,  neither!  I 
want  no  men  in  me  kitchen!  An'  what's  more, 
I'll  have  none !  [She  puts  the  yellow  bowl  back  in 
the  middle  of  the  table,  then  gathers  up  the  chefs 
paraphernalia  and  carries  them  to  the  table  up- 
stage, where  she  throws  them  recklessly  into  the 
suitcase.  She  closes  the  suitcase,  and  is  carrying 
it  to  the  up-stage  door  when  Kathleen  enters 
through  the  other.}  Kathleen,  bring  that  Eye- 
talian's  hat  an'  coat  out  here.  [With  unquestion- 
ing obedience,  Kathleen  gets  the  various  garments- 
from  the  chair,  and  carries  them  to  the  door; 
Mrs.  Connelly  pitches  the  suitcase  out,  and  signs 
to  Kathleen  to  do  the  same  with  the  clothes; 
Kathleen  deposits  them  gently  on  the  floor,  beside 
[  79  ] 


COOKS    AND    CARDINALS 

the  suitcase]  There !  [ Leaving  the  door  wide  open, 
she  stands  with  arms  akimbo,  triumphantly  re- 
garding the  yellow  bowl]  I'll  teach  'em  who's  boss 
in  this  kitchen !  —  Comin'  here  with  his  stove-pipe 
hat  an'  his  long-tail  coat,  thinkin'  lie  can  shove 
things  around  like  the  place  belongs  to  him.  Him 
an'  his  Monsignor  Manducci !  [Suddenly  wheel- 
ing on  Kathleen  with  much  ferocity]  What  do  ya 
mean,  standin'  there  like  a  fool,  starin' !  Hurry 
up  with  them  biscuits,  an'  then  peel  the  pertaters. 

KATHLEEN.  Yes'm.  [She  goes  submissively  to 
the  table  right,  and  resumes  her  occupation  of 
kneading  the  biscuit -dough] 

MRS.  CONNELLY  [when  she  has  sat  down  in  the 
rocking-chair,  and  heaved  a  sigh  of  relief ;  rumi- 
natively]  It  can  be  a  lesson  to  'em  all,  to  keep  out 
o'  the  kitchen.  Tchef  indeed!  [With  a  final 
"sniff"  she  dismisses  the  subject  from  her  mind, 
and  takes  up  her  book  again;  her  reading  is  inter- 
rupted presently  by  the  sound  of  little  gulps  from 
Kathleen,  who  is  weeping;  Mrs.  Connelly  looks  all 
about  for  the  source  of  the  sound,  and  when  she 
finally  traces  it,  her  face  assumes  an  expression 
of  mingled  surprise  and  solicitude]  Is  that  you 
cryin',  Kathleen? 

KATHLEEN  [between  gulps]  Yes'm. 

MRS.  CONNELLY.  Why,  whatever's  the  matter, 
girl? 

KATHLEEN.     That  d  —  dispensation. 

MRS.  CONNELLY.  Kathleen,  not  another  word ! 
It's  bad  enough  for  a  young  girl  like  you  to  have 
—  committed  —  such  a  grave  offense  as  to  require 
[  80  ] 


COOKS    AND    CARDINALS 

a  dispensation,  without  paradin'  your  sins  in  the 
public  eye,  so  to  speak.  I'm  surprised  at  ya ! 
[Kathleen  gulps  hard]  An'  don't  cry  in  the  dough. 
If  the  biscuits  was  the  least  bit  too  salty,  his 
Eminence  would  notice  it. 

KATHLEEN.     Yes'm. 

MRS.  CONNELLY.     He's  that  per  —  ticular. 

[Kathleen  makes  no  reply,  but  manages  to  stifle 
her  sobs;  Mrs.  Connelly  goes  on  reading,  nodding 
sagely  from  time  to  time,  in  confirmation  of  the 
writer's  views.  Stillness  reigns  for  a  while.  Then 
Father  Anselm  and  Cardinal  Wheeler  are  heard, 
and  dimly  seen,  approaching  the  up-stage  door. 
In  the  half-light,  Father  Anselm  trips  over  the 
suitcase,  and  measures  his  length  on  the  floor  of 
the  passage-way;  he  ejaculates]  Hell!  {The  Car- 
dinal, mildly,  expostulates]  Anselm!  [Father  An- 
selm scrambles  to  his  feet,  then  says  the  least  bit 
gruffly]  Beg  pardon,  your  Eminence.  It  was  in- 
voluntary. [To  which  the  Cardinal,  with  the  in- 
timation of  a  chuckle,  replies]  Of  course;  of 
course;  I  didn't  suppose  it  was  intentional. 
[Father  Anselm  answers  coldly]  I  was  referring 
to  my  exclamation,  your  Eminence.  [The  con- 
science-stricken Cardinal  hastens  to  make  generous 
amends]  Yes,  yes,  my  son;  I  know.  Forgive  my 
ill-timed  humor.  You  aren't  hurt,  are  you?  [His 
wounded  amour-propre  quite  healed  by  this  speech, 
Father  Anselm  makes  answer  in  the  tone  of  filial 
respect  proper  in  a  member  of  the  seignorial 
household]  Oh,  not  at  all,  your  Eminence.  [The 

[  81   ] 


COOKS    AND    CARDINALS 

Cardinal  says  heartily]  Ah,  that's  good ;  suppose 
we  go  on  in,  then,  and  read  that  rebellious  spirit 
a  lesson  in  hospitality.  [Father  Anselm  takes  a 
step  forward  and  says]  Mind  you  don't  stumble 
over  it,  jour  Eminence.  [The  Cardinal  replies 
airily~\  I  shall  profit  by  your  experience,  my  son. 
[And  as  Father  Anselm  reaches  the  doorway,  the 
Cardinal  adds]  Besides,  I  have  surmounted  more 
difficult  obstacles  than  a  suitcase.  [The  younger 
priest  stands  aside,  and  the  Cardinal  enters.  Out 
in  the  passage-way,  he  was  seen  as  a  vague,  shad- 
owy form;  now  he  is  revealed  as  a  small,  old  man, 
thin  to  emaciation,  and  ascetic-looking,  but  with 
a  twinkle  in  his  eyes;  he  is  clad  in  his  scarlet 
robes,  and  looks  every  inch  a  prince  of  the  Church 
as  he  stands  well  inside  the  room,  with  the  black- 
gowned  Father  Anselm  towering  behind  him.  Un- 
happily, Father  Anselm' s  own  dignity  is  somewhat 
marred  by  the  fact  that  he  carries  in  his  left  hand 
M.  Levraut's  silk  hat,  which  has  eve.ry  appearance 
of  having  been  a  hard-used  buffer  between  Father 
Anselm  and  the  floor;  also,  there  are  dusty  areas 
about  the  knees  and  elbows  of  the  good  young 
priest;  immediately  he  has  entered  the  kitchen,  he 
bends  over  and  with  his  disengaged  right  hand 
begins  brushing  the  dust  from  his  knees. 

The  action  and  dialogue  off-stage  have  not,  of 
course,  been  without  impression  on  the  occupants 
of  the  kitchen.  At  the  first  sound  of  approaching 
footsteps,  Mrs.  Connelly  raises  her  head,  and  looks 
at  the  door;  then,  when  the  crash  comes,  she 
jumps  to  her  feet;  Kathleen,  too,  starts,  takes 
[  82  ] 


COOKS    AND    CARDINALS 

her  hands  out  of  the  dough,  and  turns  toward  the 
direction  of  the  noise;  they  exchange  a  glance 
of  pained  surprise  at  the  sound  of  the  word  "Hell," 
but  thereafter  their  eyes  do  not  meet;  Mrs.  Con- 
nelly, who  dropped  her  book  on  the  floor  at  the 
moment  of  rising,  stands  quite  still,  arms  akimbo, 
regarding  the  door  with  a  look  of  grim  determina- 
tion, which  becomes  intensified  at  the  words,  "re- 
bellious spirit."  Kathleen,  on  the  contrary,  moves 
tiptoe  across  the  stage,  a  little  at  a  time,  with 
the  light  of  hope  in  her  eyes;  at  the  moment  of 
the  Cardinal's  entrance,  she  is  quite  close  to  the 
left  wall,  between  the  gas-stove  and  the  up-stage 
door.] 

MRS.  CONNELLY  [with  Castilian  magnificence] 
Ah,  walk  in,  your  Eminence.  'Tis  a  long  time 
since  ya've  honored  the  kitchen  with  your  pres- 
ence. 

THE  CARDINAL  [bluffly]  No  blarney,  Bridget. 
What's  the  meaning  of  this  unseemly  conduct? 
Putting  the  mark  of  your  hand  on  a  guest  in  this 
house,  so  that  he's  afraid  for  his  life  [darting  a 
glance  over  his  shoulder  at  Father  Anselm]  as 
Father  Anselm  can  tell  you. 

FATHER  ANSELM  [discontinuing  the  brushing 
of  his  gown,  and  straightening  up  hastily]  Yes, 
your  Eminence ;  he  is  indeed ! 

THE  CARDINAL.  He  was  positively  pale  when 
he  came  upstairs,  and  his  words  to  Cardinal  Man- 
ducci  were,  "Cette  vieille  vache  en  bas  m'a  frappe 
la  jumelle."  [Impressively]  Do  you  know  what 
that  means? 

[  83  ] 


COOKS    AND    CARDINALS 

MRS.  CONNELLY.  Somethin'  dis  —  creditable, 
I'll  be  bound. 

THE  CARDINAL.  It  means,  "I,  who  am  a  guest, 
have  been  denied  common  hospitality."  [Father 
Anselm's  sense  of  humor  gets  the  better  of  him, 
and  he  chokes  a  little;  the  Cardinal  turns  to  him 
with  merry  eyes,  but  unwavering  voice]  —  My 
poor  Anselm,  you  must  have  got  some  dust  in 
your  throat.  Hadn't  you  better  drink  a  glass  of 
water? 

FATHER  ANSELM  [mastering  his  emotion] 
Thank  you,  your  Eminence,  but  I  shall  be  all 
right  in  a  moment.  [He  coughs.] 

[Kathleen  tiptoes  hastily  across  to  the  dresser, 
wipes  her  hands  on  a  roller-towel  hanging  near  it, 
gets  a  tumbler,  fills  it  at  the  tap  above  the  sink, 
and  carries  it  to  Father  Anselm.  The  Cardinal 
watches  her  in  amused  silence;'  Mrs.  Connelly  does 
not  move  an  eyelid.] 

FATHER  ANSELM  [taking  the  tumbler  with 
good  grace]  Thank  you. 

KATHLEEN  [with  something  like  a  curtsey; 
mumbling]  You're  welcome,  your  Reverence.  [She 
sidles  back  to  her  place  near  the  stove] 

MRS.  CONNELLY  [officiously]  Maybe  his  Emi- 
nence'd  like  a  glass,  too,  Kathleen. 

THE  CARDINAL.  None  for  me,  thank  you; 
none  for  me.  [Then,  as  Father  Anselm  stands 
with  the  tumbler  in  his  hand,  as  if  unable  to  make 
up  his  mind  to  drink  its  contents]  Drink  it,  An- 
selm. It  will  teach  you  to  control  the  emotions. 
'  [  84  ] 


COOKS    AND    CARDINALS 

[Father  Anselm,  scowling  furiously,  empties 
the  tumbler  in  as  few  gulps  as  he  can  manage; 
Kathleen  takes  the  tumbler  from  him'] 

.  MRS.  CONNELLY.  What  a  grand  thing  water 
is.  I  don't  know  how  we'd  ever  git  along  with- 
out it ! 

THE  CARDINAL  [He  appears  not  to  be  aware 
that  Mrs.  Connelly  has  spoken]  Now,  Bridget, 
tell  me  what  made  you  violate  the  laws  of  hospi- 
tality. 

MRS.  CONNELLY.  Sure,  your  Eminence,  he 
called  me  names;  the  Eyetalian. 

THE  CARDINAL.  Frenchman,  Bridget ;  French- 
man ,  not  Italian. 

MRS.  CONNELLY.  Which  it's  all  the  same  to 
me,  your  Eminence!  What  I  sez  is,  furriners  is 
furriners.  An'  the  kitchen,  your  Eminence,  is  no 
place  for  'em! 

THE  CARDINAL.  This  particular  foreigner, 
Bridget,  happens  to  be  a  chef  by  profession.  He 
is  quite  as  much  at  home  in  a  kitchen  as  you 
yourself. 

MRS.  CONNELLY.  Not  in  this  kitchen,  your 
Eminence. 

THE  CARDINAL.     Careful,  Bridget!  Careful! 

MRS.  CONNELLY.  But  I  tell  you,  your  Emi- 
nence, he  —  called  me  names! 

THE  CARDINAL.  Am  I  to  understand,  Bridget, 
que  tu  paries  fran9ais? 

MRS.  CONNELLY  [staring  dumbly]  What,  your 
Eminence? 

[  85  ] 


COOKS    AND    CARDINALS 

THE  CARDINAL  |  after  (in  amused  glance  at 
leather  Anseltn]  I  am  asking  why  you  struck  Mgr. 
Manducci's  chef.  The  real  reason,  mind!  With- 
out paltering  or  deception ! 

MRS.  CONNELLY  [recognizing  that  the  time  has 
come  for  speaking  truth]  Well,  your  Eminence, 
I'll  tell  you.  'Twas  because  I  wouldn't  have  him 
messin'  around  me  kitchen !  Him  nor  any  other 
man !  The  kitchen,  your  Eminence,  is  woman's 
sphere ;  an'  let  all  men  keep  out  of  it ! 

THE  CARDINAL.  Silence,  woman !  —  Anselm, 
go  call  the  Frenchman. 

FATHER  ANSELM.  Yes,  your  Eminence.  [He 
goes  out.] 

MRS.  CONNELLY  [with  owlish  gravity]  I  warn 
you,  your  Eminence,  if  that  grinnin'  ape  comes 
back  in  here,  I'll  smack  the  other  side  of  his  face 
for  him ! 

THE  CARDINAL.     You  forget  yourself,  Bridget. 
—I  must  have  a  new  lock  put  on  the  door  to  the 
wine-cellar. 

MRS.  CONNELLY.  Is  it  a  thief  you're  calling 
me,  your  Eminence? 

THE  CARDINAL.  Did  I  make  any  such  impli- 
cation?—  Dear,  dear!  I  must  have  been  talking 
to  myself.  A  most  reprehensible  habit. 

MRS.  CONNELLY.  'Tis  no  habit  at  all !  Just 
a  bit  of  a  tonic  I  take  for  me  liver. 

THE  CARDINAL.  You  appear  to  have  taken 
an  over-dose  today,  my  good  soul.  See  that  it 
doesn't  happen  again,  or  you  and  I  shall  part  com- 
pany. 

[  86  ] 


COOKS    AND    CARDINALS 

LEVRAUT  [off-stage]  Mais  non,  mon  Pere!  Ne 
me  le  demande  pas  !  Cette  f emme  me  tuera ! 

FATHER  ANSELM  [off-stage]  Le  Cardinal  le 
veut,  je  vous  dis !  Yenez !  Venez  vite! 

LEVRAUT  [off-stage]  Comment?  Le  Cardinal 
souhaite  ma  mort?  Quel  sanguinaire! 

FATHER  ANSELM  [off-stage]  Venez,  M.  Levraut ! 
Venez ! 

[But  M.  Levraut  would  seem  bent  on  disap- 
pointing the  Cardinal;  sundry  grunts  and  rust- 
ling sounds  drift  in,  indicative  of  a  tussle,  the  re- 
calcitrant chef  exclaiming  several  times]  "Mais 
non!  Non!"  [As  she  listens,  Mrs.  Connelly  assumes 
an  expression  very  grim  indeed,  and  rolls  up  her 
sleeves  in  workmanlike  fashion .] 

THE  CARDINAL  [shaking  a  warning  finger  at 
Mrs.  Connelly]  Mind,  Bridget,  no  more  nonsense ! 

MRS.  CONNELLY.  He  better  keep  out  o'  here, 
then! 

THE  CARDINAL.  If  you  dare  to  lay  the  weight 
of  a  finger  on  the  man,  I  shall  discharge  you ! 

MRS.  CONNELLY  [regarding  her  right  hand 
wistfully]  Sure,  your  Eminence,  you'd  never  fire 
Bridget  Connelly  on  account  o'  the  likes  of  him! 

THE  CARDINAL.  You  heard  what  I  said, 
Bridget. 

MRS.  CONNELLY  \ regretfully]  Very  well,  then. 
When  your  Eminence  talks  like  that,  there's  noth- 
in'  more  to  be  said.  [She  begins  unrolling  her 
sleeves,  and  walks  toward  the  door  rear  as  Father 
Anselm  shoves  in  the  reluctant  chef,  whom  she 

r  ST  i 


COOKS    AND    CARDINALS 

addresses  with  the  venom  which  she  dares  not 
show  toward  her  employer]  —  Come  on  in,  ye 
scut !  Come  in,  I  tell  you ! 

LEVRAUT  [recognizing  the  tone  of  her  voice, 
and  not  the  words]  A  moi !  Au  secours !  [And 
wheeling  with  lightning-like  rapidity,  he  breaks 
away  from  the  grasp  of  Father  Anselm,  and 
dashes  out.] 

MRS.  CONNELLY  [turning  with  some  indigna- 
tion to  the  amused  Cardinal]  I  never  touched 
him,  your  Eminence !  So  help  me  God,  I  didn't ! 

THE  CARDINAL.  You  see,  Bridget,  we  must 
avoid  the  appearance  of  evil.  —  What's  to  be 
done,  Anselm?  The  man  seems  in  a  panic. 

FATHER  ANSELM.  He  is,  your  Eminence.  He 
vows  he  won't  enter  the  kitchen  while  Mrs.  Con- 
nelly is  in  it. 

THE  CARDINAL.  A  pretty  state  of  affairs,  upon 
my  word !  [And  he  paces  back  and  forth  in  per- 
turbation.] 

MRS.  CONNELLY  [virtuously]  I've  done  all  I 
can  do,  your  Eminence.  You  heard  me  tell  him 
to  come  in,  with  your  own  ears. 

THE  CARDINAL.  Yes,  yes  !  I  know.  —  It  looks, 
Anselm,  as  if  my  guest  must  go  without  his  spa- 
ghetti, or  we  without  our  dinner. 

ANSELM  [with  a  sigh]  A  difficult  —  ah  —  alter- 
native, your  Eminence. 

THE  CARDINAL.  Precisely.  Have  you  nothing 
to  suggest? 

ANSELM.     Well,    your   Eminence,   I   dare   say 
Mgr.  Manducci  can  survive  without  spaghetti. 
[  88] 


COOKS    AND    CARDINALS 

THE  CARDINAL.     Not  good  enough,  Anselm.  - 
The  laws  of  hospitality !    The  laws  of  hospitality. 
-  Seeing  that  you  created  the  difficulty,  Bridget, 
maybe  you  can  suggest  a  way  out. 

MRS.  CONNELLY.  Beggin'  your  Eminence's 
pardon,  I  must  ask  to  be  ex  —  cused.  I  wash 
me  hands  of  the  whole  business.  'Tis  most  dis- 
tasteful. 

THE  CARDINAL.  A  vexed  question!  Bless  my 
soul,  a  vexed  question ! 

[There  is  an  awkward  pause.] 

KATHLEEN  [with  extreme  diffidence,  and  fright- 
ened at  the  sound  of  her  voice]  Your  Eminence  — 
I  — I- 

THE  CARDINAL.  Yes !  You  have  something  to 
offer? 

[But  Kathleen  is  frightened  and  confused,  and 
cannot  go  on.] 

MRS.  CONNELLY.  Don't  keep  his  Eminence 
waitin',  girl !  Speak  up  ! 

FATHER  ANSELM.  You  needn't  hesitate,  child. 
What  were  you  going  to  say? 

KATHLEEN  [almost  too  frightened  to  speak] 
Nothin',  your  Reverence. 

MRS.  CONNELLY.  No  fibs,  Kathleen!  What 
was  you  startin'  to  say? 

KATHLEEN  [desperately]  If  you  go  home,  Mrs. 
Connelly,  the  Eyetalian  gentleman'd  come  back 
an'  fix  the  spaghetti,  an'  I  could  git  the  rest  of  the 
dinner. 


COOKS    AND    CARDINALS 

MRS.  CONNELLY  [indignant  and  astounded] 
You  git  dinner  !  You  ? 

KATHLEEN.     Yes'm.      Why   not? 

THE  CARDINAL.     Do  you  think  you  can,  child? 

KATHLEEN.  Oh  yes,  your  Eminence.  I'm  sure 
I  can. 

THE  CARDINAL  [jubilantly]  Out  with  you, 
Bridget ! 

MRS.  CONNELLY  [in  deep  anger]  Is  she  to  have 
my  place,  your  Eminence? 

THE  CARDINAL.  You  are  suspended  until  the 
departure  of  our  guests. 

MRS.  CONNELLY.     Holy  Saints  in  Heaven! 

THE  CARDINAL  [as'  she  shows  signs  of  a  new 
outburst]  No  impudence,  Bridget!  Off  with  you! 

MRS.  CONNELLY  [after  a  struggle,  as  he  looks 
firmly  but  pleasantly  at  her]  Very  good,  your 
Eminence.  [Recovering  a  little]  But  don't  blame 
Bridget  Connelly  if  the  biscuits  is  heavy!  [And 
she  stalks  out.]  • 

THE  CARDINAL  [a  little  amused]  What  about 
that,  child?  Can  you  make  biscuits? 

KATHLEEN.  I  was  mixin'  the  dough  when  you 
come  in,  your  Eminence. 

THE  CARDINAL.  Child,  you  are  a  treasure! 
[Taking  Anselni's  arm,  he  starts  for  the  door 
rear]  If  ever  you  need  a  favor  of  me,  you  have 
only  to  ask  it. 

KATHLEEN.  Oh,  your  Eminence,  I  do  want  a 
very  great  favor  of  you !  A  friend  of  mine  and 
I- 

THE  CARDINAL  \with  a  courteous  gesture]  My 
[  90  1 


COOKS    AND    CARDINALS 

guest  is  waiting.  Tomorrow  you  shall  tell  me 
about  it.  [As  he  sees  her  face  fall]  But  whatever 
it  may  be,  it  is  granted.  [The  Cardinal  and  Anselm 
go  out;  and  Kathleen,' as  they  leave,  blows  an 
ecstatic  kiss  heavenward.] 


CURTAIN 


[  91   1 


A    FLITCH    OF    BACON 

AN    18TH    CENTURY    COMEDY 

BY 

ELEANOR    HOLMES    HINKLEY 


CHARACTERS 

A  COUNTRY  SQUIRE 

DICK,  his  nephew 

LUCAS,  An  old  retainer 

ADAM,  A  young  husband 

SUSAN,  A  young  wife 

JACK,  HAL,  Comrades  of  the  Lichfield  Hunt 


First  produced  by  The  47  Workshop,  March  7  and  8, 
1919. 

Copyright,   1919,   by   Eleanor   Holmes    Hinkley. 

Permission  for  amateur  or  professional  performances 
of  any  kind  must  first  be  obtained  from  The  47  Workshop. 


A    FLITCH    OF   BACON     . 

TIME  :  The  eve  of  the  Lichfield  hunt.  SCENE  : 
A  shallow  set.  Dark  panelled  walls.  Rear  cen- 
tre, a  large  fireplace:  from  it  hangs  a  huge  flitch 
of  bacon.  On  either  side  of  the  fireplace,  a  heavy 
chair  of  carved  oak.  No  other  furniture  of  any 
description.  Over  the  fireplace,  a  stag's  head. 
Over  each  chair,  a  hunting  picture.  To  the  right, 
a  door  to  the  library.  To  the  left,  a  door  to  the 
servants'  hall.  Dark  hangings  to  both  doors. 
As  the  curtain  rises  sound  of  loud  merriment. 
Discovered  four  men  in  hunting  jackets.  All  hold 
glasses  of  wine.  Three  stand  a  bit  to  the  right, 
the  fourth  —  the  host  —  a  little  to  the  left.  The 
three  are  gay,  impertinent  young  dogs,  the  fourth 
a  domineering  country  squire  of  forty.  In  the 
door-way  right,  stands  an  old  retainer  with  a 
leather  apron.  He  holds  a  large  bowl  of  wine. 

SQUIRE  [thickly']  Here,  Lucas!  pass  the  wine 
again ! 

[Lucas  passes  the  bowl.] 

[Quick  on  one  another,  with  rising  volume] 

DICK.     Uncle,   a  toast ! 

HAL.     A  toast ! 

JACK.     A  toast. 

[  95  1 


A    FLITCH    OF    BACON 

[Lucas  draws  back  right.] 

SQUIRE  [holding  up  glass]  To  every  bachelor 
in  England ! 

DICK,  JACK,  HAL.  To  every  bachelor  in  Eng- 
land! 

LUCAS  [a,  moment  after  the  others]  To  every 
bachelor  in  England  [shaking  head]  God  bless  the 
lucky  devils.  [All  laugh.] 

A  SHRILL  VOICE  [off  left]  Lucas!    Lucas! 

[Old  man  trembles,  and  hobbles  toward  the 
door  left.  'All  laugh.] 

DICK.  Hurry  "Lu-cass"!  Your  wife  is  call- 
ing! 

HAL.     Egad,  but  the  fellow  can  run! 

JACK.     He  fears  the  vixen's  tongue! 

SQUIRE.     And  heavy  hand ! 

[More  laughter.] 

LUCAS  [turns  in  door]  A  plague  upon  old  Bet- 
sey !  I  fear  her  not ! 

VOICE.  Lucas !  Lucas !  [Lucas  hurries  out. 
As  they  laugh  again,  the  three  men  move  farther 
to  the  right.  The  host,  with  his  riding  crop, 
strikes  a  heavy  blow  upon  the  fitch  of  bacon. 

SQUIRE.  S'death!  This  flitch  of  bacon  will 
hang  till  doomsday,  gentlemen.  [They  laugh.  He 
flings  the  whip  in  the  corner  as  he  speaks  again] 
All  wives  are  scolds,  all  husbands  fools,  all  unions 
loveless  before  the  moon  has  set ! 

OTHERS.     Huzza  !  huzza ! 

SQUIRE.  Beshrew  me,  if  it  were  not  so,  some 
[sarcastically]  worthy  couple  would  have  claimed 
the  flitch  of  bacon! 

[  96  ] 


A    FLITCH    OF    BACON 

OTHERS.     Aye!  aye!  V 

SQUIRE.  A  year  and  six  months  now  I  hung 
that  flitch  of  bacon  in  my  hall  and  said  to  all  my 
tenantry  [loudly]  "That  flitch  of  bacon  shall  be 
given  to  any  man  or  woman,  a  year  and  a  day 
after  their  marriage,  upon  swearing  that  they 
would  not  change  for  none  other,  fairer  nor  fouler, 
richer  nor  poorer,  sleeping  nor  waking,  nor  at  no 
time."  I  said  it.  And  the  couples  who  were  soon 
to  marry  came  forward.  "The  flitch  is  ours," 
they  cried,  [laughs  loud]  "The  flitch  is  ours  !"  But 
of  that  ten,  not  one  has  come  to  lay  their  claims. 
Of  ten  sugary,  billing  and  cooing  couples  not  one ! 
not  one!  [All  laugh.] 

LUCAS  [re-entering  left]  Master! 

SQUIRE  [coming  toward  him]  What  now? 

LUCAS.     Two  persons  wait  below. 

SQUIRE.  Then  let  'em  wait  till  we  have  drunk 
ourselves  asleep! 

[The  Squire  moves  back  to  fireplace.] 

LUCAS.  Aye,  but  they  come  by  your  appoint- 
ment, sir. 

[The  Squire  turns  round  violently.] 

SQUIRE.  They  lie !  I  never  set  an  hour  with 
any  man  alive  upon  the  hunt-day.  Zounds,  'tis 
known  to  all  my  tenantry  I  keep  the  hunt-day 
sacred  as  the  Eastern  slave  his  holy  day!  [They 
laugh.]  Send  'em  away.  I  will  have  nothing  of 
them. 

LUCAS.     But  sir,  they  will  not  go ! 

SQUIRE.  They  will  not  go!  Then  tell  the 
[  97  ] 


A    FLITCH    OF    BACON 

scurvy  knaves  they  stay  at  their  own  peril.  [Turn- 
ing suddenly  upon  Lucas.]  And  what  the  devil  do 
they  want  with  me? 

LUCAS  [stretching  a  lean  forefinger  toward  the 
chimney. ~\  The  flitch  of  bacon  that  hangs  upon 
yon  chimney-piece. 

SQUIRE  [drawing  back,  low-voiced]  Egad. 
Egad.  Egad.  [Coming  toward  Lucas]  'Tis  a 
couple  then? 

LUCAS.     As  pretty  a  couple  as  — 

SQUIRE.     A  couple  of  liars  ! 

JACK  [coming  down  front]  Villainous  liars  1 

HAL  [coming  down  front]  Precious  frauds! 

DICK  [coming  down  front]  Expose,  uncle!  bait 
'em! 

LUCAS.  Gentlemen !  you  would  hot  be  so  cruel ! 
[Very  slight  pause.  He  advances  protestingly, 
and  stands  between  the  three  men  and  the  squire, 
turning  from  one  to  the  others]  It  is  the  gentlest, 
meekest  wife  — 

SQUIRE.  Aged  perjurer!  When  was  there 
meekness  in  a  wife! 

LUCAS.     And  the  lovingest  husband - 

SQUIRE.  There's  no  such  article  as  love  in 
husbands ! 

LUCAS.  Sirs  !  I'll  be  sworn  they've  never  quar- 
reled! 

SQUIRE.  Egad,  I'll  set  'em  to  it,  then!  [Giving 
Lucas  a  shove]  Show  'em  up,  you  wooden-headed 
simpleton ! 

[Lucas,  chuckling,  puts  up  his  hand  to  ward  off 
a  box  on  the  ear.  He  goes  out  left.  The  squire 
[  98  ] 


A   FLITCH    OF    BACON 

stanch  down  front,  left,  both,  hands  thrust  deep 
in  Tus  breeches  pockets.] 

DICK   [gayly]   And  now  for  the  sport ! 

SQUIRE  [wheeling  round']  Odds  life !  Dost  think 
that  thou  art  in  it,  saucy  boy? 

DICK.  You  would  not  turn  us  out  before  the 
comedy  begins ! 

HAL  and  JACK.     Nay  !  nay ! 

DICK.  I'faith  you  could  not  be  so  desperate 
cruel ! 

SQUIRE.  Away  with  you!  [Advances]  When 
did  I  promise  you  a  comedy?  S'death  'twould  be 
a  merry  spectacle !  three  brave  gentlemen  a  watch- 
ing one  poor  squire  dispose  his  flitch  of  bacon ! 
Come,  get  ye  gone!  [He  pushes  them  toward  the 
door  left] 

JACK.     Were  they  to  win  the  flitch  — 

[As  the  squire  starts  to  shove  him  out,  Dick 
taunts  him  on  the  left.] 

DICK  [finishing  Jack's  sentence]  Unc  would  be 
silent  as  the  grave ! 

[As  the  squire  dives  for  Dick,  Hal  takes  up  a 
fresh  taunt] 

HAL.     Aye,  if  they  prove  loving  now  — 

[As  the  squire  pushes  Hal  out  also,  Dick  again 
finishes  the  sentence] 

DICK.  Your  flitch  will  be  the  laughing-stock 
of  centuries ! 

[The  squire  seizes  his  nephew  by  the  shoulders, 
and  with  much  struggling  gets  him  out.] 

'     »ft 


A    FLITCH    OF    BACON 

SQUIRE  [in  doorway]  Away  with  you !  you 
villainous,  black-mailing  rascals!  Away  with 
you !  [Loud  laughter  greets  him  outside.] 

[The  squire  turns  about.  Straightens  wig. 
Folds  arms.  Faces  door  left.  Enter  Lucas.] 

LUCAS.     Master  —  the  candidates. 

[Enter  a  man  and  a  woman  —  both  very  young. 
The  woman  clutches  the  man's  hand.  She  trem- 
bles as  she  sees  the  squire,  and  ducks.  Her  hus- 
band bobs  his  head,  simultaneously.  Both  are 
much  awed.] 

SQUIRE  [grimly]  Advance. 

[They  come  forward,  hand  in  hand.  Again  the 
woman  curtseys  —  the  man  bobs.  Lucas  stations 
himself  just  inside  the  door  left,  with  a  face  of 
smiling  expectancy.] 

SQUIRE.     Lucas !  get  ye  below. 

[Lucas  turns,  disappointed.  At  this  moment, 
the  door  behind  the  Squire  opens  softly,  and  three 
heads  appear.  Lucas  catches  sight  of  them,  and 
chuckles.  The  squire  wheels  round  sharply.] 

SQUIRE.  Hey  day !  is  this  the  way  you  treat 
my  orders !  Here,  Lucas,  stand  by  the  library 
door  and  see  that  .no  man  enters. 

[Lucas  goes  to  door  right. ] 

LUCAS  [wistfully]  Outside? 

SQUIRE.     Outside!  you  fool. 

[Exit  Lucas.     Door  closes  after  him.] 

[  100  ] 


A    FLITCH    OF    BACON 

SQUIRE  [turning  to  them]  Sit  down. 

[They  look  round  the  room  for  chairs.  There 
are  only  two  chairs,  one  on  either  side  of  the  fire- 
place, back  to  the  wall.] 

WOMAN  [clinging  to  her  husband's  side,  and 
clutching  his  hand  tighter}  Oh  sir!  may  we  not 
stand  together? 

SQUIRE  [in  a  thundering  voice}  Loose  hands ! 

[They  do  so  on  the  instant,  trembling.} 

SQUIRE.     Stand   apart ! 

[They  draw  apart] 

SQUIRE.  Egad,  how  would  you  quarrel  with 
her  hand  in  yours?  The  test  lies  quite  another 
way.  I  ask  ye,  can  ye  sit  apart,  and  still  love  on? 
I  ask  ye  that. 

WOMAN  [curtseying  and  trembling]  Yes,  your 
honor. 

MAN  [bobbing  his  head}  An't  please  you,  sir. 

SQUIRE.     Then  sit  ye ! 

[The  wife  drops  into  the  left  hand  chair.  The 
husband  into  the  right.  Each  is  out  of  range  of 
the  other's  vision.  The  Squire  folds  his  arms. 
The  couple  watch  him  'in  terrified  fascination.} 

SQUIRE  [to  man,  suddenly}  Produce  your 
marriage  license. 

MAN  [stammering]  My  —  my  marriage  li- 
cense? 

SQUIRE  [with  a  triumphant  smile}  To  prove 
that  ye  are  wed.  And  if  ye  have  it  not,  I  warn 
ye,  all  is  over.  I  will  shut  the  door  upon  ye.  'Tis 

[  101  ] 


A   FLITCH    OF    BACON 

now  or  never.  Do  you  hear?  [They  tremble  vis- 
ibly] Ah!  you  have  it  not! 

MAN  [fumbling  in  pocket]  Aye,  here  it  be,  your 
honor.  [The  man  rises  and  gives  the  marriage 
license  to  the  Squire.  As  the  Squire  is  glancing 
through  it,  the  man  goes  to  his  wife,  and  furtively 
takes  her  hand.~\ 

SQUIRE  [not  looking  up]  Your  name  is  Adam, 
and  you  have  not  quarreled  with  your  wife !  [Looks 
up  mockingly.  Catches  the  caress]  Knave,  be 
seated ! 

[Adam  sits,  trembling.] 

SQUIRE.  Adam  and  Susan,  if  these  be  your 
rightful  names,  listen  to  my  final  warning.  [He 
speaks  in  a  solemn,  high-church  voice  to  intimidate 
them.  They  tremble.]  Of  all  the  crimes  this 
.  world  hath  known,  deceit  is  the  most  criminal.  To 
deceive  your  parents  is  a  grievous  sin,  to  deceive 
your  husband  a  more  pardonable  weakness,  but 
to  deceive  your  master  is  a  crime  so  heavy  there 
is  no  punishment  too  great.  [He  faces  them] 
Speak  out !  have  ye  paid  heed  to  this  my  exhorta- 
tion? .  •.  '". 

ADAM  [trembling]  Aye,  sir,  aye. 

SUSAN.     Indeed,  we  did,  sir ! 

SQUIRE.  Upon  the  strength  of  it,  I  ask  you, 
Adam,  have  you  never  quarreled  with  your  wife? 

ADAM  [solemnly]  Never!  so  help  me  God  I  tell 
the  truth !  [Leans  forward  and  tries  to  catch  Su- 
san's eye]  When  I  look  into  my  Susan's  eyes,  I 
could  not  speak  an  ugly  oath  upon  my  life! 

SQUIRE.     Sit  back!  [Turns  to  Susan]  And  you, 

[   102  ] 


A   FLITCH    OF    BACON 

have  you  the  boldness  to  avow  before  my  face 
that  you  have  never  spoke  in  sharpness  to  that 
clod  of  earth  your  husband? 

SUSAN.  He  becn't  a  clod  of  earth,  so  please 
you,  sir !  And  I  do  love  him  dearly.  He  knows 
I  could  not  speak  ungentle  to  him,  no  more  than 
I  could  fly.  [Leans  forward,  feels  surreptitiously 
for  Adam's  hand.] 

SQUIRE.  Sit  back!  [They  both  sit  back  with 
a  jump.]  I  see  that  you  are  hardened  liars  and 
not  to  be  dismayed  by  talk  religious.  So  be  it. 
Zounds !  [comes  centre  stage]  I  will  examine  you 
according  to  the  laws  of  courts.  [To  both]  You 
have  been  married  a  year  and  a  day,  and  have  not 
wished  to  change  with  no  other,  fairer  nor  fouler, 
richer  nor  poorer,  sleeping  nor  waking  nor  at 
no  time?  [Walks  to  Susan  as  he  finishes.] 

SUSAN  [eagerly]  Yes! 

SQUIRE.     "Yes"? 

ADAM  [quickly]  No,  Susan.     Say  no. 

SQUIRE  [to  Adam]  Silence! 

SUSAN.     No  !  no  ! 

SQUIRE.  At  no  time  have  you  wished  to  change 
with  any  other  wife? 

SUSAN  [horrified]  Heaven  help  me,  no ! 

SQUIRE  [scornfully]  This  Adam  was  your  only 
lover? 

SUSAN  [proudly]  No  indeed,  your  honor.  I  had 
another  lover  did  woo  me. 

SQUIRE.     And  who  was  he  —  the  fool? 

SUSAN.  A  widower  with  a  farm  and  six  fine 
horses.  [Airily.] 

[  103  ] 


A   FLITCH    OF   BACON 

SQUIRE.     And  how  many  fine  children,  eh? 

SUSAN  [humiliated]  Ten. 

SQUIRE  [roaring  with  l<in(jhtcr\  A  handsome 
offer!  [He  crosses  to  centre \  And  you,  brave 
Adam,  what-  cross-eyed  hag  hath  cast  upon  thee 
sheep's  eyes? 

ADAM  [complacently]  There  was  a  farmer's  lass 
did  ask  me  for  a  kiss  behind  the  hay-stack. 

SQUIRE.  Ah!  had  you  heard  this,  fair  Susan? 
Your  faithful  spouse  hath  kissed  a  wench  behind 
the  hay-stack. 

ADAM  [shocked]  Nay,  but  I  did  not !  I  said 
most  firmly,  "Your  pardon,  lady,  I  am  betrothed." 

SQUIRE  [laughs  again]  Refused  a  lass  a  kiss? 

ADAM  [apologetically]  She  had  red  hair  and 
freckles. 

SQUIRE.  Red  hair  and  freckles  —  seven  horses 
and  ten  children !  So  this  is  why  you  are  content, 
my  precious  pair.  [He  walks  down  left  thought- 
fully. Turns  to  Susan]  What  if  a  handsome  lad 
looked  on  thee  with  tenderness,  a  gentleman,  rich 
and  brave.  What  wouldst  thou  do? 

SUSAN  [curiously]  Is  there  such  a  one? 

SQUIRE.  Aye,  aye,  perchance.  [Mysteriously] 
And  perchance  he  hath  seen  thee  at  the  church, 
and  perchance  hath  cried  thy  name  in  sleep. 

SUSAN  [interested]  How  did  he  know  my  name? 

SQUIRE.  Perchance  the  youth  did  ask  the  par- 
son for  thy  name.  Perchance  the  parson  an- 
swered, "Her  name  is  Susan.  But  look  on  her  no 
longer  or  you  will  covet  your  neighbor's  wife." 
Perchance  he  bade  him  leave  the  country-side. 
[  104  ] 


A    FLITCH    OF    BACON 

SUSAN  [quickly]  And  did  he  go? 
[Sound  of  laughter  from  room  beyond.} 

SQUIRE.  Perchance  he  and  his  comrades  revel 
in  the  room  beyond. 

SUSAN  [quickly]  One  of  the  gentlemen  who 
peeked  ? 

[Adam,  who  has  been  growing  increasingly  un- 
comfortable, leans  forward  in  his  chair  and  tries 
to  catch  Susan's  eye  round  the  fireplace.] 

SQUIRE  [walking  left  of  Susan.  Softly]  If  ye 
could  have  him  now,  and  he  did  offer  honorable 
marriage,  what  would  ye  say?  Come  now,  my 
wench,  would  ye  not  s^iy  "Yes,  Jack,  mv  love,  yes, 
sweet."  Would  ye  not  so?  [Very  slight  pause. 
Susan  looks  very  soft  and  sentimental.  Then  she 
catches  the  squire  smiling  at  her  triumnhantlv/.] 

SUSAN.     Never !  while  Adam  lived  and  breathed. 

ADAM.     There's  mv  pretty  chick!  mv  honey! 

SQUIRE.  Silence!  [Turns  to  Adam]  Were  you 
to  learn  that  Betsey  with  her  monev  bags  would 
give  them  all  to  you,  if  you  would  leave  your  wife 
for  one  short  hour  and  give  to  her  those  honeyed 
smiles  — 

ADAM.     Hath  Betsey  monev  bags? 

SQUIRE  [quickly]  You'd  come,  eh,  bov? 

AT,AM  [hesitates,  then  sees  the  look  of  triumvh 
on  the  sauire9s  face]  I  would  not  give  the  hag  one 
smile  which  is  mv  Susan's  ! 

SUSAN  [complacently]  Ave,  ave,  thee  wouldn't. 

SQUIRE  [walks  down  right]  You  fools!  You 
[  105  ] 


A    FLITCH    OF   BACON 

will  not  gain  a  handsome  cavalier,  nor  you  a  for- 
tune for  one  smile !  But  in  your  sleep  you  will  see 
wisdom. 

ADAM.      Susan  and  me  we  never  dream. 

SUSAN.     We  sleep  like  little  children,  sir. 

SQUIRE.  A  plague  upon  you,  sleepy  heads! 
[Turning  sharply  round  on  Susan]  But  hold! 
[Crossing  to  her]  Susan,  when  you  rise  shivering 
on  the  winter's  morn,  and  chop  and  chop  the  wood, 
and  build  the  fire,  and  make  the  victuals  while  your 
lordship  sleeps  beneath  the  eider  down,  then  you 
are  peevish,  eh?  And  when  he  comes  into  the 
kitchen,  yawning  and"  stretching  his  lanky  limbs, 
and  says  "My  sweet,  the  porridge  has  no  salt," 
then  you  begin  to  Sjcold,  eh  what  ? 

ADAM  [with  approbation]  Susan  never  forgets 
the  salt. 

SUSAN  [proprietarily~\  And  Adam  chops  the 
wood  before  we  go  to  bed. 

SQUIRE.  Bah!  you  hen-pecked  fellow!  [Comes 
to  him~\  Do  you  never  think  [lowering  his  voice 
persuasively']  would  God  but  gently  take  her  hence 
unto  a  happier  land?  At  nighttime,  now,  after  a 
long  day's  labor,  when  you  sit  beside  the  fire,  your 
aching  limbs  relaxed,  your  eyes  half  closed  for 
sleep  delicious,  then  Susan  with  her  vibrant  voice 
comes  to  thy  side  and  plies  thee  rapidly  with  ques- 
tions. Does  it  not  rouse  your  spleen  to  hear  her 
sa v,  "Where .  hast  thou  been  to-day,  my  pet  ? 
Where  art  thou  bound  tomorrow,  lamb?  Where 
are  those  shillings,  sweet,  that  jingled  in  your 
breeches  when  you  left  home  last  night?" 
[  106  1 


A   FLITCH    OF    BACON 

ADAM.  But  sir,  I  been't  from  home  at  night 
time. 

SUSAN.  Aye  [sighs]  and  he  puts  his  shillings 
in  a  stocking. 

SQUIRE.  You  been't  from  home  at  night  and 
put  the  shillings  in  a  stocking !  Egad !  egad !  you 
are  a  precious  pair  of  nincompoops !  [Strides 
down  left.]  But  hold!  thou  art  a  fool,  yet  still 
thou  art  a  man.  When  you  would  spend  the  Sab- 
bath afternoon  at  the  King's  Arms,  and  she  would 
have  thee  dandle  on  thy  knee  thy  puling  offspring. 
What  then?  What  then? 

SUSAN.  But  sir !  —  [The  Squire  turns  to  her] 
The  baby  do  not  like  to  dandle.  He  be  backward. 

ADAM.  We  go  to  company  together  —  wife 
and  me. 

SQUIRE.  And  when  you  go  to  company  to- 
gether and  have  a  tale  to  tell,  a  roaring,  funny 
tale,  how  dost  thou  feel  when  Susan  up  and  stops 
thee  with  "You  tell  it  wrong,  my  lamb ;  my  sweet, 
'twas  thus  and  so"?  And  all  the  merriment  hath 
gone  before  she  sets  thee  straight!  What  say 
you  then? 

SUSAN.     He  been't  no  story  teller. 

ADAM.     Susan  and  me  are  never  comical. 

SQUIRE.  Egad,  you  speak  the  truth  at  last ! 
Had  you  the  comic  sense  you  could  not  live  to- 
gether! [Paces  up  and  down  front  with  growing 
excitement]  You  do  not  quarrel,  for  you  have  no 
brains,  no  eyes,  no  anything  to  quarrel  with !  You 
cannot  see  the  thing  the  other  is !  [In  a  thunder- 
ing voice  to  Adam]  You  do  not  know  that  she 
[  107  ] 


A    FLITCH    OF    BACON 

is  brainless  as  the  hen  that  clucks  from  morn  to 
night !  [Adam  looks  at  his  wife  a  trifle  nervously] 
And  you!  [turns  to  Susan]  You  do  not  know  that 
he's  a  pudding-headed  clown  that  values  one  base, 
copper  farthing  more  than  all  the  curls  that  dan- 
gle from  your  neck!  [Susan  looks  at  Adam  a  bit 
anxiously]  Take  the  flitch  of  bacon,  swine  that  ye 
be!  [Moves  to  centre] 

[As  the  couple  rise  from  either  side  of  the  fire- 
place expectantly,  distant  mirth  is  heard  from  the 
room  right.  The  Squire  starts,  and  looks  right.] 

SQUIRE  [slowly,  still  looking  right]  This  flitch 
is  old  and  —  and  dry,  for  it  hath  hung  before  this 
fire  for  eighteen  months,  gathering  dust  and  mois- 
ture. —  'Tis  quite  uneatable. 

SUSAN  [in  a  tone  of  deep  disappointment]  Aye, 
is  it  so? 

SQUIRE.  Hark  ye.  'Tis  not  the  flitch  you  wish 
[lowers  voice  and  glances  apprehensively  to  door 
left]  but  a  reward  of  virtue  [sarcastically]  —  a 
reward  of  virtue  for  your  constancy.  [Laying  his 
hands  upon  Adam's  shoulders  persuasively  as  he 
faces  him]  What  do  ye  say  if  I  from  generosity  of 
heart  present  you,  Adam,  with  half  a  crown?  a 
crown  perchance?  [Moves  around  to  the  other  side 
of  him  as  he  speaks]  What  say  you  to  a  crown 
to  put  away  in  that  lean  stocking  of  yours  ?  What 
say  you? 

ADAM  [eyes  sparkling]  'Twould  be  most  hand- 
some, sir. 

SUSAN  [romantically]  But  'tis  the  flitch  we 
come  for,  Adam. 

[   108  ] 


A   FLITCH    OF   BACON 

ADAM  [joining  Susan  left}  Aye  [lowering 
but  a  crown  is  better  than  a  flitch  gone 
stale. 

SUSAN.  We  cannot  hang  the  crown  upon  our 
chimney  piece  to  show  the  neighbors.  [More  laugh- 
ter right.} 

SQUIRE  [hastily]  Two  crowns,  then? 

SUSAN  [still  eying  the  fitch  wistfully]  'Tis  the 
largest  flitch  I  ever  seen. 

SQUIRE.     Three.     Three  then! 

ADAM.  Aye,  aye.  Make  it  four,  and  I  will 
take  it. 

SQUIRE.  So  be  it.  I  will  fetch  my  money  bags. 
[Walks  down  left.  Turns  in  door}  But  mark  ye, 
Adam  and  Susan,  make  no  noise  on't,  to  no  one, 
low  or  high,  for  if  you  gab  of  this,  beshrew  me,  if 
I  will  not  throw  you  out  of  house  and  land ! 

ADAM  [trembling}  We  will  not  tell. 

SQUIRE.  Wait  here  and  I  will  come  directly 
with  the  money. 

[Exit  Squire  left.  The  couple  hasten  together , 
and  embrace,  stage  centre.] 

ADAM.     My  lamb ! 

SUSAN.     My  coney! 

ADAM.     The  sweet  rogue! 

SUSAN.     Dear  bud ! 

ADAM  [chuckling  excitedly}  What  sayest  my 
pretty  to  her  love  for  earning  twenty  shillings 
this  night? 

SUSAN  [quickly}  Nay,  chick,  ten  shillings  are 
mine. 

[  109  ] 


A    FLITCH    OF    BACON 

ADAM  [sharply]  How  so,  my  love? 

SUSAN.  "How  so?"  [With  remonstrance]  Did 
I  not  keep  the  peace  with  thee  for  twelve  long 
months  on  purpose! 

ADAM  [soothingly]  Aye,  thou  art  an  amiable 
wench. 

SUSAN  [nestling  close]  And  thou  a  good  lad  to 
thy  coney.  [Raising  her  head  from  his  shoulder 
speaks  with  a  grain  of  apprehension]  Wilt  buy 
me  ribbands  for  my  curls,  with  thy  new  fortune? 

ADAM  [toying  with  the  curl]  The  pretty  curl! 

SUSAN  [drops  her  head  on  his  shoulder  again. 
Then  raises  it  again.  A  trifle  suspiciously]  Wilt 
buy  them  soon? 

ADAM.  Aye,  thou  shalt  have  ribbands  [cau- 
tiously] some  day. 

SUSAN  [quickly]  Tomorrow,  love? 

ADAM  [evasively]  I  do  be  busy  tomorrow. 

SUSAN  [laughing]  Thou  needst  not  choose 
them,  silly! 

ADAM  [smoothly]  There  be  no  such  hasce,  my 
dove. 

SUSAN  [breaking  away  from  him  with  a  sudden 
suspicion]  Art  going  to  put  them  all  into  the 
stocking? 

ADAM.  My  sweet,  the  man  is  always  master  of 
the  purse-strings. 

SUSAN  [with  suppressed  irritation]  'Tis  most 
unjust. 

ADAM  f smugly]  The  world  is  as  we  find  it,  love. 

SUSAN  [with  rapidly  increasing  heat]  And  as 
we  make  it,  too. 


A    FLITCH    OF    BACON 

ADAM  [with  dignity]  Thou  art  unreasonable, 
Susan. 

SUSAN.     And  thou  art  selfish! 

ADAM.     My  love! 

SUSAN  [stamping  foot]  Wilt  buy  me  ribbands 
for  my  curls? 

ADAM.     No.     The  shillings  are  mine. 

SUSAN  [showing  her  anger]  I'faith,  where  would 
you  be  with  all  your  twenty  shillings  if  I  had  chose 
to  see  you  was  a  pudding-headed  clown,  a  clod  of 
earth ! 

ADAM  [equally  incensed]  Yea!  and  how  of  me? 
What  if  I  chose  to  look  and  see  you  was  a  brain- 
less clucking  hen ! 

SUSAN  [enraged]  Aye,  aye !  but  hens  be  humaner 
than  misers  !  [Faces  him]  I  tell  ye  half  that  money 
is  mine. 

ADAM.  I  tell  ye  every  shilling  is  mine.  I  will 
be  master ! 

SUSAN.     I  hate  you ! 

ADAM.     No  love  is  lost  with  me! 

[At  this  point  the  Squire  appears  in  the  door 
left,  and  drops  back  behind  the  hangings  to  over- 
hear them.] 

SUSAN  [almost  crying]  You  tyrant!  For 
twelve  long  months  I've  held  my  tongue,  and  heard 
the  bacon  fat  a-frying!  [Pathetically]  There'll  be 
no  bacon  now  at  breakfast,  and  Love  is  gone! 
[Weeps]  Ah!  would  I  were  married  to  that  fine 
gentleman  who  called  me  Susan  in  his  sleep! 

ADAM  [coming  down  on  her,  their  faces  pushed 

[  in  ] 


A    FLITCH    OF    BACON 

out  angrily  at  each  other]  And  I,  Betsey  with  her 
money  bags ! 

[The  Squire  comes  from  behind  the  hangings 
shaking  "with  convulsive  laughter.] 

SQUIRE  [at  length]  S'death  but  I  have  caught 
tliee  at  it !  You  thought  to  blind  me  with  fine 
words,  but  I  have  found  ye  out.  So  this  is  how 
ye  carry  on  when  backs  are  turned. 

ADAM.  Before  God,  master,  I  swear  'twas  the 
first  quarrel  — 

SQUIRE.  Aye,  may  be.  But  practice  will  make 
perfect,  soon.  Egad,  'tis  the  best  story  I've  heard 
tell,  to  lose  at  the  last  throw !  [Shakes  with  mirth] 
I'll  call  the  youngsters  in!  [Starts  to  door  right.] 

SUSAN  [with  presence  of  mind]  Had  ye  not  bet- 
ter put  away  the  money  first?  There  is  a  strange 
look,  sir,  to  money  bags  at  such  a  time. 

SQUIRE  [looking  down  at  the  money  bags,  which 
he  holds  in  either  hand]  Aye,  that  is  true.  [More 
soberly]  I'll  put  the  shillings  and  pence  away. 
'Twould  look  like  bribery.  [He  goes  to  door  left. 
Turns  in  it  again,  laughing]  The  quarrel  once 
begun  doth  never  .end.  Hey  ho  !  hey  ho  ! 

[Exit  Squire  left] 

SUSAN.  Now,  see  what  thou  hast  done !  Be- 
cause you  would  not  buy  me  ribbands  for  my  hair 
ye've  lost  ve  twentv  shillings.  \She  moves  down 
left.] 

ADAM  [heavily]  Aye,  that  I  have.  [Moves  down 
right.-] 

[  "2  ] 


A    FLITCH    OF    BACON 

SUSAN.     And  love. 

ADAM.     Aye,  that  too. 

SUSAN.      'Tis  a  cruel  thing  to  hate  like  we  do. 

ADAM.     And  we  begun  so  loving. 

SUSAN.     So  loving ! 

ADAM.  Love's  queer.  It  comes  so  hard.  It 
goes  so  easy. 

SUSAN.     Aye,  men  were  fickle  ever. 

ADAM.  Some  say  it  is  a  crime  to  live  together 
when  love  is  gone. 

SUSAN  [moving  toward  him  hotly]  Then  I  will 
leave  thee! 

ADAM  [moving  toward  her  with  spirit]  God 
speed  thee! 

SUSAN.     Farewell! 

[Pause.     They  are  now  side  by  side.] 

SUSAN  [heavily]  I  must  live  alone  as  I  did  be- 
fore I  met  thee,  and  work. 

ADAM  [sighing]  And  I  must  keep  myself  in 
victuals  like  I  used  to  do. 

SUSAN.     'Twill  be  strange. 

ADAM.     Aye,  very  strange. 

SUSAN.     Remembering  all  that  was. 

ADAM.     Aye,  so  much  that  used  to  be. 

SUSAN.     And  now  is  dead. 

ADAM.     And  never  more  will  be. 

SUSAN.  Let  us  kiss  good-bye  for  old  time's 
sake.  [Shyly.] 

ADAM.     Aye,  lass.     Let  us  kiss. 

[He  kisses  her  solemnly.  He  lets  her  go  re- 
luctantly.] 


A    FLITCH    OF    BACON 

SUSAN.     Why  dost  thou  wait,  Adam? 

ADAM.     We  could  not  leave  together,  Susan ! 

SUSAN.  I  will  take  one  door,  then,  and  you 
the  other.  [Voices  again  right.  She  brightens.] 
I  will  go  left. 

ADAM  [also  hearing  men's  voices]  No,  no  ! 

SUSAN  [stamping  her  foot]  Thou  art  my  mas- 
ter no  longer! 

ADAM  [pleading]  You  would  leave  me  in  anger, 
sweet  ? 

SUSAN  [contritely]  Nay,  coney  —  [catches  her- 
self short  in  her  endearment.] 

[Susan  goes  to  the  door  left.  Adam  goes  to 
the  door  right.  They  both  look  back  over  their 
shoulders.  They  catch  each  other's  eye,  and  go 
out.  Stage  empty  a  second.  Susan  re-enters. 
Looks  in.] 

SUSAN  [tragically]  Gone!  [She  goes  to  chair 
right  and  buries  her  head  in  her  hands.] 

[Enter  Adam  right.] 

ADAM  [looking  toward  the  opposite  door]  Gone ! 
[He  gropes  for  the  chair  left.] 

[Both  are  now  completely  hid  from  each  other's 
view  by  the  wide  walls  of  the  fireplace.  At  the 
same  moment  Susan  sobs,  and  Adam  groans.  Both 
hear  the  other,  and  turn.] 

SUSAN  [rising]  Adam! 

ADAM  [rising]  Susan! 

SUSAN.     I  thought  you  be  gone! 

ADAM.     Aye,  me  too ! 

[114] 


A    FLITCH    OF    BACON 

[They  stand  wavering  toward  each  other,  all 
but  falling  into  each  other's  arms.] 

SUSAN  [so&s]  I  do  not  want  to  go! 
ADAM  [gulps]  No  more  do  I! 

[At  the  same  moment  they  rush  into  each  other's 
arms.  Pause.] 

SUSAN  [softly]  'Tis  like  we  were  lovers  again! 
ADAM.     Better.     There's  one  roof  now.     Let's 
go  home,  lass. 

[Adam  puts  his  arm  round  Susan.  Her  head 
falls  on  his  shoulder.  As  they  move  toward  the 
door  left,  the  Squire  bursts  in.  He  stares  at  them 
aghast.] 

SQUIRE.  Kissed  and  made  up  !  [Then  furiously, 
as  he  goes  to  them]  Ye  fools ! 

ADAM  [serenely]  May  be  so,  your  honor. 

SUSAN  [completely  forgetful  of  the  Squire. 
Looking  at  Adam,  rapturously]  'Tis  a  wondrous 
thing  to  quarrel  when  you  love,  and  all  these 
months  we  never  knew!  ' 

[They  look  at  each  other  with  delight,  and  move 
out  left.  The  Squire  stares.] 

SQUIRE  [dully]  Egad.  Egad.  [Pause.  Stands 
looking  at  the  floor.  To  himself]  "  'Tis  a  won- 
drous thing  to  quarrel  when  you  love."  [Breaks 
off.  Forces  himself  into  a  daredevil  mood] 
S'death!  lies!  lies!  lies!  They  do  not  love!  they 
are  not  happy !  [  With  a  rip-roaring  voice  he  calls 
out]  Hie  there,  my  boys,  come  Jack !  Come  Dick ! 
Come  Hal ! 


A   FLITCH    OF   BACON 

[They  burst  in  breathlessly,  followed  by  Lucas, 
who  carries  the  wine  bowl.  The  Squire  comes 
centre  stage  with  a  big  air  of  triumph.] 

JACK  [crossing  left,  unsteadily]  What  ho? 
What  ho? 

SQUIRE.     Behold !  the  flitch  still  hangs  ! 

ALL.  Huzza !  huzza  !  [Dick  and  Hal  stand  to 
the  right. ] 

SQUIRE.     Wine,  Lucas !  wine ! 

[Lucas  passes  the  bowl] 

ALL.     A  toast !  a  toast ! 

SQUIRE  [stepping  forward  with  his  wine  glass 
held  aloft]  Here's  to  every  bachelor  in  England! 

ALL  [coming  forward  also]  To  every  bachelor 
in  England!  [As  they  raise  their  glasses  to  their 
lips,  the  Squire,  with  a  sudden  outburst  of  gloomy 
rage,  flings  the  wine  glass  from  him.  It  breaks 
upon  the  floor.  Dick,  Jack,  Hal  start  back.] 

LUCAS.  Master !  [steps  forward]  what  now ! 
the  flitch  still  hangs. 

SQUIRE  [bitterly]  Aye,  but  the  wine  is  mouldy. 

[The  three  comrades  start  to  sip  the  wine,  then, 
startled,  raise  their  eyes  from  the  glasses,  and 
leaning  forward,  stare  at  the  Squire.] 


CURTAIN 


THE    PLAYROOM 

A    FANTASY    IN    ONE    ACT 

BY 

DORIS    F.    HALMAN 


CHARACTERS 

LlSBETH 

FANNY 

ETHEL 
THOMAS 
CECILY 
ROGER 


First  produced  by  The  Workshop,  March  7  and  8,  1919. 
Copyright,  1918,  by  Doris  F.  Halman. 
Permission    for    amateur    or    professional    performances 
of  any  kind  must  first  be  obtained  from  The  47  Workshop. 


THE    PLAYROOM 

SCENE  :  Interior  of  a  stable  belonging  to  a  city 
house.  The  door  is  in  the  centre,  back,  closed.  One 
little  window  is  placed  quite  low  in  the  right  wall. 
All  the  woodwork  is  dark,  and  the  light  from  this 
one  window  is  much  obscured  by  many  embroi- 
deries of  dust.  There  is  no  vehicle  of  any  kind 
in  the  place;  but,  instead,  everywhere  is  furniture, 
furniture  covered  with  cotton  slips,  and  some 
merely  with  pieces  of  brown  sacking.  Over  the 
tops  of  two  stalls  built  out  from  the  left  wall 
protrude  the  stacked-up  legs  of  chairs.  Under 
the  window  is  a  sideboard.  The  rest  of  the  right- 
hand  stage  is  taken  up  by  a  table,  with  a  rocker 
and  two  small  chairs,  all  covered,  drawn  up 
round  it. 

At  curtain-rise,  we  see  the  dim  interior.  If 
there  is  more  light  in  any  one  place  than  else- 
where, it  is  on  the  rocker,  where  a  very  small  little 
girl  sits  rocking  a  large  doll.  This  child  looks 
about  six  years  old.  She  is  ideally  beautiful,  the 
kind  of  baby  all  women  plan  to  have,  but  none 
of  them  quite  attains.  Even  her  clothes  and  the 
doll  partake  of  this  exquisite  unreality.  In .  a 
sweet  voice,  she  is  humming  "Rockabye,  Baby." 

Then  the  dusty  window  is  cautiously  opened; 


THE    PLAYROOM 

and  another  child  crawls  through,  dropping  easily 
to  the  top  of  the  sideboard,  and  thence  to  the 
floor.  It  is  a  pretty  little  girl  of  six,  with  wind- 
blown hair  and  substantial,  rumpled  clothes.  She, 
too,  has  a  doll,  of  diminutive  size  and  much  han- 
dled appearance.  She  stares  at  the  first  child. 

THE  NEWCOMER.  Oh,  I  never  saw  you  before ! 
Who  are  you? 

THE    CHILD    IN    THE    CHAIR.     I    am    Lisbeth. 

THE  NEWCOMER.     My  name's  Fanny. 

LISBETH.     I  have  a  cousin  Fanny. 

FANNY.  I  haven't  got  any  cousins  [She  comes 
nearer,  staring  at  Lisbeth~\  What  are  you  doing 
in  here? 

LISBETH.     I  live  here. 

FANNY.     You  do  not !     This  is  my  playroom. 

LISBETH.     This  is  my  room. 

FANNY  [kneeling  on  the  little  chair  opposite] 
I'll  tell  you  what  it  is.  It's  my  father's  barn, 
really.  And  he  manufactures  guns,  and  he'd 
shoot  you  if  he  knew.  How  can  you  live  in  my 
father's  barn? 

LISBETH.     My  daddy's  house  is  here. 

FANNY.  Do  you  mean  the  chairs  and  tables 
and  things?  These  aren't  my  father's.  They  be- 
long to  my  Aunt  Cecily.  But  she's  an  old  maid 
and  hasn't  got  any  children,  so  they're  not  yours. 

LISBETH  [with  gentle  insistence]  I  live  in  them. 

FANNY.  Why,  you  don't  either!  Aunt  Cecily 
keeps  the  barn  locked  up  all  the  time,  and  I'm 
the  only  one  that  ever  found  the  window.  And  I 
[  120  ] 


THE    PLAYROOM 

come  in  almost  every  day,  but  I  never  saw  you 
before. 

LISBETH.     I've  seen  you. 

FANNY.     When? 

LISBETH.  All  the  times  that  you  came.  You'd 
sit  down  on  the  chairs  and  talk  to  visitors;  but 
you  never  spoke  to  me.  Once  you  looked  my 
way,  and  I  thought  you  would;  but  you  said, 
"Yes,  Mrs.  Brown,  I  went  to  the  bargain  sale." 
And  that  isn't  my  name. 

FANNY.     Why  didn't  you  say  something  to  me? 

LISBETH.     I  did  call  you,  but  you  never  heard. 

FANNY.  I'd  like  to  know  how  you  could  sit 
right  there,  and  me  not  see  or  hear  f 

LISBETH.  P'raps  it's  because  you  always  came 
in  the  morning,  when  there  was  more  light. 

FANNY.  Yes,  I  did,  but  that's  nonsense.  I 
could  see  you  a  great  deal  better.  And  I  think 
you're  a  big  fibber,  Lisbeth  Whatsyourname ! 

LISBETH  [patiently]  Then  maybe  I  was  in  one 
of  the  other  rooms,  putting  my  baby  to  sleep. 

FANNY.  Those  are  stalls,  and  they  don't  look 
a  bit  like  rooms,  the  furniture  is  all  piled  up  in 
them. 

LISBETH.     My  mother  says  they  are  rooms. 

FANNY.  Have  you  got  a  mother,  too?  Oh, 
you're  just  playing  house  like  I  am,  —  aren't 
you? 

LISBETH.  I  have  a  mother,  and  my  daddy 
comes  home  from  work  at  sunset,  every  day. 

FANNY.     It's  nearly  sunset  now. 

LISBETH.     Yes,  I'm  waiting  for  him. 


THE    PLAYROOM 

FANNY.     Right  here,  in  this  barn? 
LISBETH.     Oh,  yes !    Mother  always  comes  first, 
and  then  - 

[There  is  a  sound  of  someone  at  the  door. 
Fanny  jitmps  down.] 

FANNY.  Ooh!  There's  Aunt  Cecily  coming, 
and  she'll  be  awful  angry  if  she  finds  us !  Let's 
us  hide  —  quick ! 

[She  runs  into  the  stalls.  But  Lisbeth  gets 
down  from  her  chair,  smiling] 

LISBETH  [softly]  Mother! 

[As  the  key  grates  in  the  lock,  a  man's  voice  is 
heard,  raised  in  impatience.  Lisbeth  turns  and 
goes  slowly  into  the  stall.  The  door  creaks  into 
its  groove.  Afternoon  sunlight  pours  into  the 
barn,  lighting  up  all  its  incongruities.  A  man  and 
woman  enter  from  the  driveway.] 

THE  MAN.  You  see !  The  barn's  as  musty  as 
an  old  tomb. 

THE  WOMAN.  That's  what  it  is,  Tom.  The 
tomb  of  Cecily's  hopes. 

THOMAS  [grunting]  Um.  —  It's  darned  incon- 
venient, burying  your  hopes  in  a  stable. 

THE  WOMAN.     Yes,  but  — 

THOMAS.  Stables  were  built  for  more  practical 
things. 

THE  WOMAN.     My  dear  — 

THOMAS.     You  know  I'm  right,  Ethel. 

ETHEL.  Yes,  but,  after  all,  she's  my  sister, 
[  122  ] 


THE    PLAYROOM 

and  I  do  feel  for  her.  Why,  I  seemed  just  like  a 
burglar,  taking  the  key  from  her  room. 

THOMAS.  Nonsense !  We've  got  as  much  right 
to  the  place  as  she  has.  Or  anyhow,  you  ought  to 
have.  Your  father  left  the  property  to  both  of 
you  alike. 

ETHEL.     I  know ;  but  she's  made  it  sacred. 

THOMAS.  She's  made  a  little  fool  of  herself, 
if  you  ask  me.  Roger  wasn't  as  crazy  about  her 
as  all  that.  Don't  tell  me  a  man  in  love  will  go 
to  war  when  his  own  country's  neutral,  just  be- 
cause' his  parents  happened  to  be  French.  Yet  lie 
went  gallivanting  off,  at  the  very  start  of  things. 

ETHEL.  No  matter  what  he  thought,  it's 
Cecily  I  - 

THOMAS.  Now,  look  here,  Ethel.  I  hate  to 
be  unfeeling;  and  I'm  willing  to  suppose  you  can 
mourn  for  a  -fiance  as  much  as  you  would  a  hus- 
band. But  when  we  first  heard  from  France  that 
Roger  was  dead,  why,  that  was  one  thing.  If 
she  wanted  to  come  out  here  then,  and  moon  over 
the  furniture  they'd  bought  for  their  own  home, 
all  right.  All  —  well  —  and  —  good.  But  the 
man's  been  dead  two  years,  poor  fellow.  And  we 
do  need  a  car. 

ETHEL.     We  got  along  very  well  without  one  — 

THOMAS.  When  we  couldn't  afford  it.  But 
three  years  in  the  munitions  business  —  Won't 
you  ever  be  able  to  realize! 

ETHEL.     Yes,  I  do,  of  course. 

THOMAS  [walking  about]  She  ought  to  get  rid 
of  this  stuff;  or  if  she  won't  she  ought  to  have  it 
[  123  ] 


THE    PLAYROOM 

stored.  This  arrangement  isn't  good  for  the  fur- 
niture ;  it  isn't  good  for  Cecily  —  and  it  will  be 
good  for  Fanny  to  take  a  long  ride  every  day. 

ETHEL.  Yes,  that's  true.  And  Cecily  loves 
Fanny.  We  always  used  to  dream  we'd  have  little 
girls  the  same  age,  and  I  suppose  she  remembers 
it  now. 

THOMAS  [abstracted,  measuring  things  with  his 
eye]  Fifteen  feet  — 

ETHEL,.  Sometimes  she  offers  me  advice  about 
Fanny  in  the  most  peculiar  way  - 

THOMAS  [pursuing  his  count]  Thirty  to  forty 
—  um  —  fifteen  from  that  — 

ETHEL.     As  if  she  knew  some  other  child. 

THOMAS  [planning]  We'll  have  the  place 
cleaned  out  by  the  end  of  the  week. 

ETHEL.     I  do  dread  talking  to  her  — 

THOMAS  [rounding  on  her]  Then  7  will. 

ETHEL.  No,  oh,  no,  Tom !  You'd  better  let 
me. 

THOMAS  [turning  away  again]  All  right. 

ETHEL.  When  she  comes  back  from  her 
walk  — 

THOMAS  [investigating]  It'll  be  roomy  enough, 
I  think,  without  removing  the  stalls  — 

[He  goes  into  one,  and  we  hear  him  exclaim] 
Fanny !  [He  comes  out  with  her.] 

FANNY  [giggling]  Yes,  papa,  I  hid! 

ETHEL.     Why,  Fanny !     How  did  you  get  in  ? 

FANNY.     Through  the  window. 

ETHEL  [doubtfully]  Into  Auntie  Cecily's 
barn  — 

[  124  ] 


THE    PLAYROOM 

THOMAS.  Our  barn.  I  guess  she  can  come,  if 
she  wants  to. 

FANNY.  Oh,  yes,  mamma,  please  let  me!  It's 
just  the  loveliest  playroom  — 

THOMAS.     Some  use  for  it,  after  all. 

ETHEL.     Tom ! 

FANNY.  And  there's  another  little  girl  says 
she  lives  here. 

THOMAS.     What!     Where? 

FANNY.  She  was  in  the  stall  with  me.  Didn't 
you  see  her? 

[Thomas  strides  over  and  looks  in.] 

THOMAS  [decidedly]  There's  nobody  there. 

ETHEL.     I  guess  she  means  her  dolly. 

FANNY.     No,  I  don't  - 

ETHEL  [uneasy]  Yes,  yes,  Fanny,  all  right. 
Come,  Tom,  I  really  think  we'd  better  go.  Haven't 
you  seen  everything  you  want  to  ?  Please  come ! 

THOMAS  [going]  What's  the  hurry? 

ETHEL.     I  must  return  the  key ! 

[They  reach  the  door.] 

THOMAS  [grumbling]  You'd  think  we'd  stolen 
it. 

ETHEL.     Come,  Fanny. 

FANNY.     Oh,  I  want  to  stay. 

ETHEL  [very  nervous]  But  the  key,  dear  — 

FANNY.     /  go  through  the  window ! 

ETHEL.     Five  minutes,  then. 

[She  goes  out.  Thomas  starts  to  follow,  then 
returns  to  the  child.] 

THOMAS.  Now,  look  here,  Fanny.  Don't  scar 
the  furniture,  it's  valuable.  But  you  come  in  to 

[  125  ] 


THE    PLAYROOM 

play,  whenever  you  want  to  —  till  we  start  the 
alterations.  Then  you'll  have  to  keep  out,  re- 
member. That's  the  sort  of  thing  you  can't  go 
prying  into. 

FANNY.  Yes,  papa.  And  can  I  have  the  other 
little  girl  stay  and  play  with  me? 

THOMAS.  Who?  Oh-  [He  looks  toward  the 
stall;  then  pats  Fanny  on  the  shoulder,  and  says, 
to  humor  her]  Yes,  yes.  Where  you  get  your 
imagination,  /  don't  know. 

[Having  thus  delivered  himself,  he  goes  out, 
shutting  the  door  after  him.  The  barn  returns 
to  its  former  dimness.  Fanny  goes  curiously  to 
the  stall,  and  looks  in.] 

FANNY.     He  said  you  weren't  there ! 

[Lisbeth,  holding  her  doll,  comes  out.] 

LISBETH.     Who  was  he? 

FANNY.  My  father.  [She  adds,  triumphant] 
You  see,  he's  a  real  live  person. 

LISBETH.  Dolls  are  not  real,  but  I  like  them, 
don't  you? 

FANNY.     Yes.     Yours  is  lovely. 

LISBETH.  My  mother  made  her  dress.  And 
my  daddy  gave  her  to  me.  But  yours  is  a  nice 
doll,  too. 

FANNY.  Let's  play  house  with  them.  You 
bring  your  baby  to  call  on  me. 

LISBETH.     But  this  is  my  house. 

FANNY.     Oh,  there,  you  said  it  again ! 

LISBETH  [anxious]  Are  you  angry? 

FANNY.  N  —  no.  You  can  have  it  your  way, 
[  126  ] 


THE    PLAYROOM 

this  time.  Only,  remember  that  next  —  [She 
recalls  the  parents9  talk]  Oh,  my!  There  won't 
be  any  next  time.  I  guess  there'll  be  so  much 
automobile  in  here,  we'll  have  to  keep  out.  But  I 
can  ride  in  the  automobile.  And  maybe  I'll  ask  you. 

LISBETH.     That  would  be  very  nice. 

FANNY  [pursuing  her  new  idea]  I  know  what 
let's  play.  You  be  Auntie  Cecily,  and  I'll  be  my 
mother  coming  to  tell  you  about  our  new  car. 

LISBETH.  I  don't  think  I  know  how  to  play 
that. 

FANNY.  Oh,  it's  easy!  You  just  sit  and  say, 
"All  right,"  to  everything  I  ask  you. 

LISBETH  [sitting  down]  All  right. 

FANNY  [imitating  her  mother]  You  know, 
Cecily,  Roger  doesn't  really  love  you. 

LISBETH.     All  right. 

FANNY  [still  imitating]  And  Fanny's  a  good 
girl,  she  needs  to  go  out  riding  every  day. 

LISBETH.     All  right. 

FANNY  [half  forgetting  the  game]  Well,  how 
can  she,  if  you  won't  put  all  your  furniture  into 
a  real  tomb? 

LISBETH.     What's  a  tomb? 

FANNY  [lapsing  entirely  into  her  own  voice] 
I  don't  know,  they  have  them  over  in  France. 
[Then,  going  on  with  her  part]  Will  you  let  us 
have  the  automobile? 

LISBETH.     All  right. 

FANNY.  That's  good,  now  I  must  go  tell  Tom. 
[She  paces  to  the  door  and  tries  it.  From  now 
on,  she  talks  in  her  natural  tones.']  Oh,  they 
[  127  ] 


THE    PLAYROOM 

locked  the  door.  [She  comes  back  and  climbs  on 
the  sideboard]  I'll  play  the  window  was  a  door. 
[She  puts  her  head  out,  and  then  hastily  pops  it 
bach  in  again.]  Lisbeth !  We've  got  to  run. 
Auntie  Cecily's  just  coming  out  of  the  house.  And 
she'll  be  very  cross.  [She  reconnoitres  cau- 
tiously] You  hide  in  the  stall  again!  Go  on! 
[Lisbeth  obeys,  but  she  is  not  frightened]  And 
when  she  unlocks  the  door,  I'll  drop  down  from 
here ! 

LISBETH  [calling  from  the  stall]  Good-bye, 
Fanny ! 

FANNY  [calling  back  softly]  Good-bye,  Lis- 
beth! 

[We  hear  the  key  in  the  lock.  Fanny  disap- 
pears, closing  the  window  behind  her.  The  big 
door  moves  slowly  open.  Cecily,  all  in  white, 
stands  on  the  threshold.  The  driveway  is  no 
longer  bathed  in  sun-glow,  but  the  sky  is  begin- 
ning to  take  on  the  pink  tints  of  the  sunset.  Cecily 
closes  the  door  and  looks  about,  seeming  sur- 
prised to  find  no  one  there.] 

CECILY  [calling]  Lisbeth! 

[Lisbeth's  head  appears  round  the  corner  of 
the  stall.] 

LISBETH.  Is  it  you,  mother?  [She  runs  out  to 
her.] 

CECILY  [kneeling  to  hug  her]  Yes,  darling. 
[They  come  front  together.  The  whole  scene  is 
played  in  half-tones]  Where  were  you  hiding? 

LISBETH.     In  the  stall. 

128 


THE    PLAYROOM 

CECILY  [as  if  catching  herself}  In  the  room! 

LISBETH.     Yes. 

CECILY  [sitting  down  in  the  rocker]  The  sun 
has  almost  set,  Lisbeth,  and  the  sky  is  pink. 

LISBETH  [snuggling  into  her  arms]  Daddy  will 
come. 

CECILY.  Home.  To  you  and  me.  It's  very 
near  the  hour  we  have  together. 

LISBETH.     All  three  of  us  ! 

CECILY.  And  we  love  each  other  more  than 
anyone  else  in  the  world. 

LISBETH.  If  you  loved  me  very  much,  you 
would  tell  me  a  story. 

CECILY.     Now? 

LISBETH.     Oh,  yes,  mother. 

CECILY.     Story-time  is  after  supper. 

LISBETH.  Well,  then,  are  you  going  to  cook 
supper  now? 

CECILY  [laughing  gaily~\  I  think  I  will.  Daddy 
likes  beefsteak,  we'll  have  that  tonight. 

LISBETH  [delighted]  What  do  you  think  he  will 
say,  when  he  opens  the  door  and  sniffs  it? 

CECILY.     "Fee  —  f  i  —  f  o  —  fum !" 

LISBETH.     Won't  he  kiss  us  first? 

CECILY  [judiciously]  Well,  sometimes  you  for- 
get to  do  that,  when  you've  been  married  a  long 
time. 

LISBETH.     How  long? 

CECILY.  Oh,  —  very  long.  [Smiling  tenderly, 
she  goes  back  into  the  past]  When  we  first  set 
up  housekeeping  here  —  \Her  voice  sobers  and 
changes]  —  two  years  ago  —  [she  struggles  to 

[  129  ] 


THE    PLAYROOM 

her  former  playfulness]  —  you  began  by  being  a 
baby  in  a  long  lace  dress.  I  used  to  rock  you.  But 
you  couldn't  talk,  and  I  didn't  like  that.  Besides, 
I  used  to  see  your  Cousin  Fanny  all  the  rest  of 
the  time;  and  she  did  some  cunning  things,  and  I 
wanted  you  to  do  them.  And  other  things  she  did 
weren't  cunning  at  all,  and  I  knew  you  could  do 
them  so  much  better.  And  then,  I  was  always 
afraid  she  might  come  out  here  some  day  and 
find  you ;  and,  being  so  much  bigger  than  you, 
drop  you  or  tease  you  or  make  you  cry.  I 
couldn't  have  that !  So  you  grew  up  very  quickly 
to  your  Cousin  Fanny's  age;  and  when  she  had 
her  sixth  birthday,  you  had  yours. 

LISBETH.     The  cake  was  good. 

CECILY.     Daddy  liked  it ! 

LISBETH.     Will  he  be  hungry  now? 

CECILY.  Yes.  His  little  girl  had  better  set 
the  table. 

LISBETH  [slipping  down  from  her  lap]  He  al- 
ways comes  before  I  finish  it !  [She  runs  into  the 
second  of  the  two  stalls] 

CECILY  [looking  after  her]  Then  hurry ! 

LISBETH  [from  the  statt]  What  will  you  be  do- 
ing, mother? 

CECILY.     Mending. 

[She  opens  a  table  drawer,  takes  out  a  work- 
basket,  and  begins  to  darn  socks.  There  comes 
a  crash  from  the  stall.  Lisbeth  walks  slowly  out 
to  her,  guilty  and  repentant.] 

LISBETH  [stopping  by  her  elbow]  I  broke  a 
dish. 

[  130  ] 


THE    PLAYROOM 

CECILY  [severely  reproachful]  Oh,  you  naughty 
girl  —  [she  hugs  her  suddenly  tight]  Be  more 
careful  with  mother's  dishes.  They're  French 
china,  sent  by  daddy's  relatives,  for  a  wedding 
present. 

LISBETH  [returning]  I'll  carry  every  one  with 
both  my  hands. 

CECILY  [mending  again]  That's  the  way ! 

LISBETH  [out  of  sight]  Will  Daddy  scold? 

CECILY.     Oh,  no.     He's  too  gentle  — 

LISBETH.     Is  he  coming  now? 

CECILY  [taking  a  listening  attitude]  I  don't 
yet  hear  his  big  cane  tapping  up  the  walk. 

LISBETH.     It's  time: 

CECILY.     Almost. 

LISBETH.     Tell  me  — 

CECILY  [as  if  commencing  a  ritual]  First  he 
gets  off  a  big  electric  car  — 

[The  door  opens,  and  Ethel  stands  in  the  en- 
trance. The  sky  is  red  behind  her.  Cecily  starts, 
trembles,  and  looks  round;  then  she  slips  the 
basket  into  the  drawer,  and  gets  to  her  feet.] 

ETHEL.  Cecily  —  [She  advances,  apologetic] 
I'm  sorry  to  come  in. 

CECILY.     That's  no  matter. 

ETHEL  [nervous]  But  Fanny  told  me  you  were 
here. 

CECILY.     How  did  she  know? 

ETHEL.     She  —  must  have  seen  you. 

CECILY  [looking  at  her]  What's  the  trouble, 
Ethel? 

[   131    1 


THE    PLAYROOM 

ETHEL,  [in  a  tone  of  deep  sympathy]  Mv  dear, 
do  you  think  this  is  right? 

CECILY.     What? 

ETHEL.  You  —  to  come  here  every  day  —  like 
this.  Don't  you  suppose  —  it  ever  worries  us? 

CECILY.     Us? 

ETHEL.     Why,  Tom  —  and  me. 

CECILY  [inscrutable]  That's  kind  of  Tom. 

ETHEL.     And  Roger  wouldn't  want  you  to. 

CECILY.     Don't. 

ETHEL.  Two  whole  years  —  it's  making  you 
morbid  —  it's  not  healthy  for  you  [Cecily  is  si- 
lent] And,  my  dear!  —  Have  you  ever  thought 
how  bad  it  is  for  the  furniture? 

CECILY  [slowly]  Tom  would  know  good  furni- 
ture when  he  saw  it. 

ETHEL  ^nonplussed  and  getting  confused]  I 
don't  see  what  that's  got  to  do  with  it.  It's  the 
Will  of  'Heaven  —  what  I'm  talking  about  — 

CECILY.     Not  the  will  of  Tom. 

ETHEL.  You  act  as  if  Tom  wanted  to  use  your 
furniture.  Don't  be  unjust,  Cecily.  He's  got 
plenty  of  his  own.  He  merely  thinks  you  ought 
to  store  It  —  in  a  responsible  place. 

CECILY.  And  then  —  what  does  he  plan  to  do 
with  the  barn? 

[Ethel  is  struck  dumb  for  a  full  moment.  Then 
she  hedges.] 

ETHEL.  It's  for  Fanny's  good,  mostly,  al- 
though we'd  all  of  us  like  —  to  use  it. 

CECILY  [deadly  quiet]  What's  for  Fanny's 
good  ? 

r  132 1 


THE    PLAYROOM 

ETHEL  [forced  to  confession]  A  car. 

CECILY.     Oh,  yes. 

ETHEL  [laughing  nervously]  It's  a  wonder  he 
didn't  think  of  it  before. 

CECILY.     Isn't  it? 

ETHEL  [rapidly]  Of  course,  I  know  that  father 
left  the  property  to  us  both,  and  that  it's  as  much 
yours  as  ours.  And  where  we've  always  had  our 
way  about  the  management  of  the  house,  it  did 
seem  as  if  you  might  keep  the  say-so  regarding 
the  barn.  But  Tom  is  possessed  to  have  a  car, 
and  it  would  be  silly  to  pay  for  garage  room, 
when  we  have  this  whole  big  stable  being  put  to 
no  use  at  all.  [She  laughs  uneasily]  I  believe 
Fanny  does  use  it  for  a  playroom  sometimes,  but 
of  course  that  doesn't  count  — 

CECILY.     Plavroom ! 

ETHEL  [apologetic]  She  didn't  want  you  to 
know. 

CECILY  [making  an  appeal]  Ethel,  I  —  I  use 
it  —  sometimes  —  too,  —  for  a  playroom.  I 
come  here  —  and  live  — 

ETHEL  [breaking  in  soothingly]  Live  it  all 
over  again.  There,  what  did  I  tell  you,  dear?  It's 
doing  you  lots  of  harm. 

CECILY  [standing  away  from  her]  You  talk  of 
your  child's  good.  Do  you  know,  if  I  gave  up 
this  place  of  mine,  I'd  —  I'd  altogether  lose  — 

ETHEL  [with  unintended  cruelty]  What  have 
you  got  to  lose? 

CECILY  [giving  it  up,  with  a  passion  of  hope- 
lessness] Oh,  I  won't !    I  won't ! 
[  133  1 


THE    PLAYROOM 

ETHEL  [nervous]  Cecily,  don't  say  that.  Don't 
make  me  take  that  answer  back  to  Tom.  You 
know  how  he  can  be. 

[Cecily  calms  down  and  stares  at  her.] 

CECILY  [at  last]  Yes !    I  know. 

ETHEL.     No  peace  for  any  of  us. 

CECILY  [repeating  dully]  I  know. 

ETHEL  [following  up  her  advantage]  Moving 
the  things  will  be  an  awful  wrench,  but  you'll  feel 
better  when  it's  done  at  last.  [ATo  answer]  It 
had  to  happen  some  day.  [ATo  answer]  Oh,  I  am 
sorry  for  you,  dear !  [No  answer]  Will  you  let  me 
say  to  Tom  that  you  agree? 

CECILY  [after  a  very  long  pause,  speaking  in  a 
voice  half-strangled]  All  right. 

ETHEL  [meekly  hiding  her  triumph]  Thank 
you.  [She  goes  hastily  to  the  door.  There  she 
turns  to  say]  You  won't  be  sorry.  [She  disap- 
pears, closing  the  door.  Cecily  looks  round  her, 
dazed.  She  begins  to  go  about,  touching  one  thing 
and  then  another.  Lisbeth  comes  out  to  her] 

LISBETH.  The  table  is  all  set,  but  Daddy 
hasn't  come. 

CECILY  [turning  and  looking  at  her  with  yearn- 
ing] Oh,  Lisbeth ! 

LISBETH  [anxious]  Isn't  he  coming?    Not  ever? 

CECILY  [glancing  after  Ethel]  Something  made 
him  late. 

LTSBETH  [clinging  to  Cecily]  Won't  he  come 
to-night  ? 

CECILY  [choking  back  the  tears]  Yes,  he'll 
come  —  to -might.  [Her  voice  breaks.  She  sits  down 
[  134  ] 


THE    PLAYROOM 

in  the  rocker,  and  Lisbeth  climbs  on  her  lap]  But 
not  to-morrow,  Lisbeth.  Nor  the  next  night,  nor 
the  next,  nor  ever,  ages  long.  Oh,  what  shall  I  do? 

LISBETH.     Daddy  won't  be  here? 

CECILY.     No. 

LISBETH.     Oh,  I- — I'll  cry  for  him! 

CECILY.  Listen,  darling.  You  won't  have  to 
cry.  For  you're,  going  where  Daddy  is,  Lisbeth. 
Mother's  going  to  send  you  —  to  him. 

LISBETH.     Send  me  away? 

CECILY.  Yes.  I'll  put  on  your  white  coat, 
and  your  little  white  hat  to  match.  And  your 
doll  will  go,  too,  and  your  wee  straw  suitcase,  and 
everything  that  is  yours. 

LISBETH.     I  don't  want  to. 

CECILY.  Oh,  it  will  be  nice  there.  Some  place 
very  beautiful,  far  off  —  and  throbbing  with  love 
—  and  still.  Daddy'll  be  there  to  meet  you ;  and 
you  and  he  will  go  hand  in  hand,  down  to  Eternity. 

LISBETH.     I  wish  you  were  coming  too. 

CECILY.  So  do  I.  But  I've  only  this  one  night 
with  the  two  of  you. 

LISBETH.  Then  Daddy  had  better  hurry, 
hadn't  he? 

CECILY.  Yes ;  that's  so  !  Or  they'll  be  calling 
me. 

LISBETH.     Let's  listen  for  him. 

[They  sit  there  with  heads  uplifted,  expectant. 
Then  Cecily  recommences  the  ritual,  but  in  a  far 
different  tone.~\ 

CECILY.     First  he  gets  off  a  big  electric  car  — 

LISBETH  [happily]  The  gong  rings  for  him. 

[  135  ] 


THE    PLAYROOM 

CECILY.     And  he  crosses  the  street. 

LISBETH.     Looking  both  ways  for  automobiles. 

CECILY.  Auto  —  [She  sobs  outright]  Oh, 
Lisbeth,  Lisbeth ! 

LISBETH.  You've  got  to  go  on,  mother.  Or 
he  won't  come. 

CECILY  [with  a  great  effort]  He  — he  reaches 
his  house,  and  feels  — 

LISBETH.     In  his  pocket  for  his  key. 

CECILY.  And  then  we  hear — [The  tears 
come  again]  And  then  —  [She  checks  them  at 
last]  And  then  we  hear  his  big  cane  tapping  up 
the  walk. 

[Just  about  now,  a  tapping  sound  outside  be- 
comes plainly  audible. \ 

LISBETH.  If  we  listen,  we  —  [She  breaks  off 
the  ritual  and  looks  into  Cecily's  face,  puzzled] 
What  makes  it  so  loud,  mother?  [The  tapping 
comes  nearer.] 

CECILY.  Oh!  It  sounds  so  real,  because  we're 
feeling  badly. 

LISBETH.     It's  the  last  time,  and  it's  different. 

CECILY  [murmuring]  It  goes  pounding  into 
my  heart  — 

LISBETH.     Let's  keep  on. 

CECILY.     When  he  arrives  at  the  door  - 

[Lisbeth  jumps  down,  and  starts  toward  the 
door.] 

LISBETH.     He  turns  the  key  in  the  lock  - 
CECILY.     And  opens  it. 

[  136  ] 


THE    PLAYROOM 

[The  barn  door  goes  creaking  again  into  its 
groove.  Cecily  comes  to  her  feet  with  a  cry. 
Against  the  violet  light  of  the  dying  sunset,  a 
figure  darkens  the  doorway.  It  is  a  man  on 
crutches,  in  an  officer's  worn  uniform  of  faded 
horizon  blue.] 

ROGER  [trying  to  keep  steady  a  voice  trembling 
with  emotion]  Cecily! 

[By  this  time,  there  is  no  trace  of  Lisbeth.  She 
may  well  have  vanished  behind  some  furniture 
stacked  in  the  shadows  by  the  door.  Cecily  stares 
at  him,  dazed.  Then  one  of  her  hands  goes  grop- 
ing out  for  the  child.  Her  voice  comes  half  in  a 
whisper.] 

CECILY.  Lisbeth  —  Daddy  never  —  never  wore 
clothes  like  that. 

ROGER.  Cecily  —  don't  be  frightened  —  don't 
be  frightened ! 

[He  comes  down  ty  her  slowly,  his  crutches 
tapping  over  the  rough  floor.  She  takes  a  step 
toward  him;  and  her  hand,  still  groping  for  Lis- 
beth, touches  the  reality  of  his  coat.] 

CECILY  [looking  piteously  up  at  him]  It's  not 
—  not  makebelieve  — 

ROGER  [trying  to  laugh]  No,  dear.  Not  make- 
believe.  But  really  me! 

CECILY  [still  in  the  dazed  whisper]  You  — 
[Then,  in  a  great  cry]  Roger!  [She  clings  to 
him,  sobbing]  Roger !  —  Oh,  Roger !  —  Roger  — 

ROGER.  Oh,  —  Ethel  should  have  come  and 
told  you  first  —  I  met  her  out  there  —  she  — 
[  137  ] 


THE    PLAYROOM 

CECILY  [lifting  her  head]  No,  you !  —  You 
only!  [Their  lips  meet  in  a  long  kiss]  Roger,  I 
-  how  did  —  when  did  you  —  ? 

ROGER.     Ethel  said  you  never  heard. 

CECILY.     Only  —  death.  And  then  the  years  — 

ROGER.     Poor  love ! 

CECILY.  And  they  wanted  to  take  away  our 
things. 

ROGER  [looking  about]  The  —  old  —  house  — 
that  was  to  be ! 

CECILY.  All  I  had  —  a  playhouse  —  [She 
sways.] 

ROGER.  Let's  go  out  of  here.  We  don't  need 
dumb  things  any  more  —  and  dreams. 

CECILY  [as  they  go  upstage]  Oh,  Roger  —  I 
never  heard  —  I  never  heard  — 

[They  come  to  the  door.  Beyond  them  is  the 
deepening  blue  of  early  twilight.] 

ROGER  [as  they  pass  out]  Why,  it  was  coming 
from  Germany  straight  through  Holland  —  and 
not  daring  to  stop,  even  for  sending  word,  that 
made  me  — 

[The  two  of  them  disappear,  his  voice  dying 
away.  When  the  coast  is  clear,  Fanny  opens  the 
window  and  drops  through.] 

FANNY  [from  the  sideboard,  in  a  hoarse,  excited 
whisper]  Lisbeth !  [She  waits  for  an  answer.  None 
comes.  She  jumps  down  to  the  floor.]  Lisbeth! 
They've  gone.  I  want  you  to  come  out  and  tell 
me  every  single  word  they  said ! 
[  138  ] 


THE    PLAYROOM 

[Still  no  reply.  She  begins  searching  through 
the  stalls  and  shadowy  corners,  under  the  furni- 
ture, everywhere.  The  last  place  she  tries  is  under 
the  rocker,  centre  stage.  Lisbeth  is  not  there.] 

FANNY  [getting  up  slowly,  in  absolute  bewil- 
derment] Why! 


CURTAIN 


[  139  ] 


THE  UNIVERSITY  LIBRARY 
UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA,  SANTA  CRUZ 


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